Divisions
by Sherlocked95
Summary: Stiles has been on the road for just over a couple of months when he encounters a wounded werewolf, hunters, and two people he definitely wasn't expecting to bump into. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

He's not actually, one hundred percent sure where he is. He's certain he's still on the pacific coast route. After leaving Beacon Hills, he'd gone straight for the Olympic National Park and started from there, following a route he'd meticulously planned out on a map. He'd stuck to the route all the way through Washington State and its logging communities, to Columbia River, through following the Oregon coastline, and then he'd thought _fuck it_. Leaving Beacon Hills wasn't enough. Following a map, planning each step ahead, it isn't working.

So at some point after Oregon, he threw the map out of the window and just _drove_, only realizing where he is when he stops at a gas station or to stay the night at some cheap motel. It's kind of exhilarating and scary and free and it's perfect. It's what he needs. So he keeps it up and it's been a month now since he threw that map out the window and six weeks since he last called Scott. At night, curled up in some gross bed in a motel where the prices are low enough that basic hygiene isn't, apparently, a priority for the management, he feels guilty about that. Feels a horrible ache in his chest and a coldness in his bones that no amount of sweaters and blankets can get rid of. Hates himself for running away like a coward.

But during the day, when he's driving, alone out on the road with no destination in mind, just miles and miles of road stretching in front of him, the more he drives and the further he drives, none of that matters. He feels better. He feels like he's healing. And that's exactly what he needs. So he keeps running away.

Right now, he has no clue where he is. He didn't stop yesterday, instead driving straight through the night, so he's been on the road since five o'clock yesterday morning. It's now mid afternoon and the heat is _blistering_. The road is straight and goes on and on, so far that when he looks at the horizon, where the heat causes the road to shimmer, he feels like the road is never ending. He kind of likes that. That's why he hasn't turned off, despite not knowing if there's a motel or gas station within the next fifty miles. He likes feeling like he can just keep driving straight for days, weeks, however long this road is. It's surrounded by near desert, too. He doesn't like that so much – it kind of reminds him of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. He knows he still has to be in the pacific coast area, but still. He doesn't want to stop for the night on the side of this road. He'll probably get killed by wild dogs or bandits or something, knowing his luck.

The CD he's playing reaches its end. His original detail orientated plan (that he'd thrown out of the window along with that map) had included bringing several CDs, but after a couple of weeks he'd grown sick of the same music, so he'd bought some cheap CDs designed for truckers and roadtrippers.

He pulls over to switch CD and peel off the shirt he's wearing so he's just in his wife beater. The windows are rolled right down but it's still hot and sticky, uncomfortably so. But he knows as soon as night rolls in that it'll be _freezing _out. It'd be a good idea to try and find a motel before it starts to get dark. There's no way he's spending the night freezing his ass off in the vehicle.

_It's a Kind of Magic_ blares through the speakers as he pulls back onto the road and he rolls his eyes. He has nothing against _Queen_. They're an awesome band, one of his favorites, but it's way too predictable for a roadtrip CD mix. He's heard it ten times in the last couple of days alone.

He misses Roscoe. He'd sold his trusty Jeep a week before he'd left Beacon Hills. He hadn't got much for her – after all, to anyone else, she was just a piece of junk, even if she was his baby – but what he did get combined with the money he'd saved up for college (it's not like he's gonna need it now anyway, he's screwed up his chances of _that_) was enough to get him a second hand 2001 model Jeep Cherokee, a sturdier, more reliable choice of vehicle than Roscoe. She was old and needed more repairs than he could afford and, after incidents such as running over wayward kanimas and making quick getaway trips while hoarding fugitives, she was liable to break down for good at any moment. So the Cherokee it was. The sound system is better, at least, and the cup holder actually holds cups, whereas Roscoe tended to dump his coffee within minutes.

He sees a sign promising a turn off for a motel, gas station and diner twenty five miles ahead and sighs in relief. He needs gas, he needs to eat, and he _really _needs to stop for the night. His missed sleep is wearing on him now and he rubs a forearm over his eyes. They feel gritty and too hot for his skull, both from lack of sleep and from the overbearing heat. Perspiration smears across his face and he grimaces, returning his hand to the steering wheel. He blinks, trying to get rid of the shimmering effect on the road ahead. The heat's giving him weird sort of delusions, like the figure doubled over on the road up ahead.

Except that isn't a hallucination. It takes him a while to realize that it's an actual, substantial person and not just his mind playing tricks from the heat, but when he does he slams on the brakes and jerks hard on the wheel, bringing the Jeep to a screeching halt, angled sideways on the road. He's missed the person by inches.

"Holy crap," he gasps, heart pounding in his ribcage. "What in the actual _hell_?"

It's silent, save for the rumbling of the Jeep's engine, and he cuts it before unlatching his seatbelt with trembling fingers. He takes a deep, steadying breath, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel briefly in an effort to get his heartbeat back in check. When he's calm, he grabs the keys and opens the door, jumping out of the Jeep. He winces as the heat hits him full force, making his lungs feel like they're stuffed full of cotton and his eyes itch.

"Hey," he says to the person swaying on the spot a few feet away. "What the hell, man? I almost hit you."

He doesn't receive an answer. He frowns, taking a few cautious steps forward.

"You with me, dude? I'm not sure I get cell reception out here so please tell me you don't need an ambulance. Look, there's a gas station and motel, like, twenty miles up ahead. Do you need a ride?"

The guy – he's pretty sure it's a guy, judging from the short, auburn hair, plaid shirt, Henleys jeans and motorcycle boots – crumples and Stiles moves quickly, catching him around the middle. He grunts under the guy's weight. The dude's shorter than him by a few inches but he's got, like, twenty pounds of muscle on Stiles and he realizes he's not going to be able to hold this guy up, so he drops to his knees instead. He winces as the hot, sticky asphalt burns his skin through his jeans and keeps one arm around the guy's shoulders to keep his body away from the road as much as possible.

"Shit," he mutters. "I have no idea what to do, man. I can't leave you here but I don't get cell reception. Can you help me out here and let me get you in my Jeep? Like I said, there's a gas station not far from here."

The guy mumbles something, speech garbled, and Stiles stops looking futilely around (like an ambulance or whatever is going to magically appear from nowhere, _seriously_?) to peer down at him, leaning closer.

"Huh?" he says. "I didn't catch that."

The dude's handsome, Stiles'll give him that, even if he is for some reason out in the middle of freaking nowhere, without a vehicle (what? Did he _walk_ out here? The last gas station was nearly forty miles back; there's no way this guy could walk out this far in this heat), and has just collapsed. He's got a square jaw with stubble a shade darker than his short auburn hair, proud features, long lashes and his physique may be short, but he wouldn't look out of place on the front cover of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue.

Stiles figures the guy is normally tanned, but right now he's pale, unhealthily so, and sweating. So is he, but this guy's perspiration is combined with cold, clammy skin and small tremors, and that's definitely not a good sign. It's also kind of familiar.

He realizes why when a dark stain on the guy's plaid over shirt catches his eye. The cloying scent of blood hits his nose then, stronger than the smell of the dry, hot air and sticky asphalt, and his stomach rolls. He pushes the shirt to the side and swallows down bile at the sight underneath.

The guy's white wife beater is stained with blood and has at least five holes in the abdomen with blood still spilling past the frayed edges. It's thicker and darker than it should be, almost black, and oozing way too slowly to be normal. Especially for a human.

_Holy shit, there is no way my luck is this bad_.

His fear is confirmed when he slowly, fingers shaking, pushes the shirt up, muttering a quick apology when the dude hisses in pain. There are six neat, small bullet holes marring the guy's abdomen and lower chest. They don't look fresh and that definitely _isn't _a good sign. Neither is the dark purple tint to the wounds and the dark veins creeping out from each bullet hole.

He remembers the first time he saw a wound like this, when he'd come horrifically close to having to saw Derek Hale's arm off to save his life, and the various times since that he's encountered this shit.

_Wolfsbane_.

This guy's been shot with wolfsbane bullets. And considering he, A, hasn't died considering he was shot multiple times in the torso and, B, is clearly affected pretty badly by the wolfsbane poisoning his blood, this guy is a freaking _werewolf_.

Seriously. How is this Stiles' life? How is it his luck that after leaving to avoid this shit, he comes across a freaking _werewolf_ that's been shot with wolfsbane out in the middle of freaking nowhere? Some deity is laughing right now, he's sure of it.

The guy's hiss snaps him out of his lamenting and he blinks, taking a deep, calming breath. Okay, shit luck aside, werewolf or not, this man is dying and Stiles can't have that on his conscience.

"What clan are you?"

Stiles blinks again, caught off guard. "Huh?"

"Werewolf clan," the guy coughs out. "Which do you belong to?"

No way. It's been _months_ since he left Beacon Hills and, with it, Scott and his pack. He's been on the road since, showered multiple times, and as far as he's aware, hasn't encountered any werewolves. There is _no _way he still smells even faintly of Scott or any others.

"You know about werewolves. You must belong to a pack."

"Er, not anymore," Stiles answers. "Listen, man, I know my bedside manner sucks right now, but here's the thing: you're kind of dying. I mean, I know you're probably aware of that, but I'm not sure how to help you. It's not like I can take you to a normal doctor."

"Doesn't matter," he manages, gritting his teeth as another tremor shakes his body. "Too late...for me..."

"Oh great," Stiles mutters. "A freaking martyr. 'Cause that helps."

"Others...need to make sure they're safe."

"Others?" Stiles shakes his head. "There's no one around. You just came out of nowhere."

The guy suddenly reaches up and grabs his forearm with surprising strength, fingers biting in, and Stiles flails, nearly falling on his ass before he regains his balance and frowns down at the werewolf.

"Er..." he starts. Because the grabbing thing? Not cool. Injured or not, this is a werewolf and he's still dangerous, even more so _because _he's dying. Stiles does not want this to end with him on the wrong end of werewolf teeth.

His eyes open then, burning sort of golden orange; he's flickering between werewolf and human, losing control, and Stiles gives an experimental tug on his arm, aware he needs to get out of biting distance, like, _now_, but no give.

"Derek...Cora...need to get to them," he gasps out, slightly slurred from where the words are spoken around werewolf teeth, but Stiles understands them all the same.

His heart gives a painful thump and he feels like the world's suddenly closing in around him. No way. _No freaking way_. There is no way it can be the same Derek and Cora because what in the actual hell? Fate's just biting him on the ass today.

He swallows, dry throat clicking, and manages to croak out, "Derek Hale?"

The guy nods, expression easing into what looks like relief that Stiles knows Derek and Cora, and his whole body slumps as his eyes shut. His grip relaxed on Stiles' arm and his insides go cold in response, the acrid burn of bile rising in his throat.

"Please don't be dead," he mutters, pressing his fingers to his neck, scrabbling to find a pulse.

He feels a faint _thump_ a second before the guy's whole body convulses; he twists to the side and black fluid gushes out of his mouth – onto Stiles' lap and shirt.

"_Jesus_," he hisses, resisting the instinct to jerk back or push the guy away.

Oh _gross_. He remembers that now, too. He knows it's just the werewolf's body trying and failing to get rid of the poison in its system, but still. _Ick_. But it means he hasn't got long left and that spurs Stiles into action.

"Okay," he exhales. "Okay. Where did you come from?"

There's no response and the guy's eyes are shut again. Stiles shakes his head. He hasn't got time to be gentle. He lifts his hand, braces himself, and hits him as hard across the face as he can. The guy snarls but his eyes snap open again, which is the result Stiles wanted.

"Directions?"

He has to lean in close to hear what the guy says but he gets the directions he needs. Thankfully, it doesn't sound too far away, but it means going off road. The perks of travelling in a sturdier Jeep include being equipped for off roading. The only problem is trying to get this dude in the vehicle.

It takes a while and a lot of effort to drag the guy up and, wrapping his arm over Stiles' shoulders and his own arm around his waist to take as much weight as he can, he manages to convince the guy to help him out at least a little bit here because, come on, _human_, he can't carry a freaking werewolf. By the time he's managed to get the dude in the passenger seat of the Jeep, he's overheated, aching and has to take a moment to regain his breath.

He swears loudly when he tries to open the driver's side door to get in; the metal is scorching from the heat and burns his fingertips. He doesn't hesitate, instead shedding his wife beater – it's ruined anyway thanks to his new werewolf buddy's black gunk – and covering his hand with it to open the door. He buckles his seatbelt, starts the engine, and straightens the Jeep out, hitting the gas.

He turns off the road after a while at the guy's murmured instruction and the Jeep shudders, the engine rattling, as he speeds over rough terrain. He glances sideways, blanching at the sight of his companion. He's gone even paler, if that's possible, and his eyelids barely flutter. He's slumped in the seat and he's gone still, chest shifting too slowly and sporadically as his breath wheezes in his chest.

_Fuck, he's not gonna make it_.

Stiles makes an instant decision, taking one hand off the wheel to reach over and grasp the guy's wrist. He starts at the touch, which means he must be really far gone. Stiles takes his foot of the gas pedal, slowing slightly, because he needs to focus on this which means less concentration on driving and overturning the Jeep at high speed will only accomplish killing _both_ of them.

He presses his thumb to the guy's pulse point, feels the faint, faltering _thumps_, and focuses on that, letting everything else slow and fade around him until he can feel that heartbeat sink into him, sliding through his veins, settling into his bones, and making home in his own chest as his heart and breathing slows to match the werewolf's.

It awakens that spark inside him, buried deep, and it unfurls slowly, cool and soothing. He draws it in and then pushes it out, into the werewolf through the connection he's made.

He's not sure it's gonna work. His magic, his spark, he'd only discovered it fairly recently and he still hasn't figured out what he can do with it. The best he's managed is a simple protection spell to keep those with nasty intentions out of the vet's clinic back in Beacon Hills. Deaton had been trying to draw the magic out of him, but had repeated multiple times that until Stiles accepted and embraced this part of him, it would remain just a small spark buried too deep to reach. But that's hard to do when he doesn't know its origins, is so busy dealing with all the other shit going on in Beacon Hills, and he's terrified that this spark is either too weak to be of any use or too powerful for him to control. He doesn't want to be supernatural, doesn't want to be like Scott or the others. He kind of likes being just average Stiles. That's one of the reasons he's running.

And this trick? It's only worked on small animals before – rabbits and guinea pigs, that kind of thing. Deaton had showed him how to do it. He can't heal them or take their pain away. Can't _fix _them or even save their life. But he can focus on that heartbeat, tie it to his magic and keep it going just a little bit longer. He'd lasted an hour once before he'd been too exhausted to keep it up and the kitten had died in his hands.

But this guy? He's a werewolf. A pretty big, scary werewolf riddled in bullet wounds and dying from wolfsbane poisoning. He's not sure his spark is strong enough, if _he's_ strong enough, for this to work, for him to tie that heartbeat to his and keep him alive for even five minutes longer than he should be. But it's worth a shot.

He glances over at the guy and _holy shit_, he thinks it's actually _working_. His breathing is unsteady but his pulse is still going, connected to Stiles', which means that by some miracle this is working and he can, hopefully, hold off his death long enough for Stiles to get him some help.

Ten minutes later, he sees it; a rundown shack up ahead. He hits the gas, closing the distance in minutes, and parks the Jeep right outside. He glances at the werewolf but figures he's got some time left, so he withdraws his hand and, with it, loses the connection. His spark disappears almost immediately, leaving him bereft for a moment before he gets used to not being able to reach it again, and the guy's breathing falters.

Stiles jumps out of the Jeep and hammers on the door to the shack, but there's no response, so he tries the handle. The door swings open and he heads inside, quickly taking in the interior. It's small, cramped and doesn't look comfortable, furnished with a mattress with a toilet bucket beside it, radio, bookshelf, water basin and, tucked into the far corner, an old trunk.

But there's no one inside. Derek and Cora aren't here. Stiles isn't sure if that's a good sign or not. There's blood on the floor and he hopes all of it is the werewolf currently in his Jeep. Sure, he barely knew Cora and him and Derek hadn't exactly been best buddies, but he doesn't like the idea of either of them being injured – or worse. There's no sign of a struggle. So either Derek and Cora got out easily or – or they weren't alive to put up a fight.

He pushes that thought away firmly. Not the time to freak himself out, not until he's got more answers as to what the hell's going on. He searches the bookshelves first but, finding nothing, he heads over to the trunk, frustrated to find it's padlocked shut.

"Fantastic," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

He wraps his hand around the hot metal and closes his eyes. It takes him longer to find that spark, exhausted as he is from using it to keep the werewolf alive, and it takes even longer to coax it out and manipulate it. But finally, _finally_, he manages to send a pulse of it into the padlock and it snaps open in his hand. He throws it aside and shoves the heavy lid of the trunk open, peering inside.

He shuffles through books, weapons and other junk until he finds a box marked with a familiar symbol. _Score_. He'd had no guarantee that this guy would have wolfsbane on him, being a werewolf and therefore deadly allergic to it and all, but he'd hoped, considering he lives alone in some creepy shack, that he'd have some for defensive purposes. He opens the box, grabs one of the small bags of wolfsbane powder and hurries back out to the Jeep, yanks open the passenger door.

He reaches over the guy to pull the lighter out of its socket in the console and shoves it inside the bag, setting the powder alight. It burns for only a second before going out, purple smoke rising out of the bag, and he pours some on each of the bullet wounds.

It's a long and horrible process, pouring the neutralized wolfsbane into each wound and rubbing it in as the guy writhes and howls and snarls, but finally, he's done all he can and he drops the bag onto the ground outside the Jeep, rubbing his fingers on his jeans to get the blood and gunk off.

The werewolf has gone still, gasping for breath with his eyes shut, but when Stiles checks his pulse it's a lot steadier; his skin is warming up beneath his hand and his color is gradually returning. He figures it won't be long until his healing kicks in.

_Holy shit, I did it. I actually saved this dude's life. Score one for Stilinski_.

He slumps against the side of the Jeep, ignoring the faint burn of the hot metal against his bare back, and lets the delayed adrenaline crash through him. Bile rises in his throat and he has to fight for breath for a moment, his whole frame trembling, but he manages to drag himself back from the brink and he leans over, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Well," he croaks. "That was a wonderfully traumatic experience."

He glances at the now sleeping werewolf and then heads round to the driver's side, climbing in and popping open the glove compartment. His phone's inside, switched off. He hasn't used it since he last spoke to Scott over a month ago, had switched it off to avoid the calls and texts and hidden it out of sight, but hadn't quite had the courage to throw it away completely, to get rid of that last tie to Beacon Hills. He's grateful for that now as he switches it on.

It immediately rings through with multiple texts, missed call alerts and voicemails, but he ignores them in favour of opening his contacts list and scrolling through until he finds Derek's number.

He doesn't know if Derek even has the same number. When Scott had tried to ring him shortly after he disappeared from town, it had rung through to voicemail. But it hadn't gone through to services saying it was no longer available and no one else had answered, so hopefully Derek still has the same number and was just ignoring Scott.

If he ignores Stiles now, he swears to all that is holy he's going to track him down and force feed him wolfsbane.

It rings through and he swears under his breath. Fucking Derek being...well, _Derek_. He doesn't bother with a voicemail and instead dials again. He'll keep dialling all freaking night if he has to.

Ten calls later, he gives up. So he's not good with patience, that's nothing new. He leaves a voicemail.

"Okay, Derek, _seriously_? This seriously is the worst time for you to be ignoring me. I'm out in the middle of fuck knows where, I'm probably going to freeze to death tonight and I just saved a werewolf buddy of yours from death by wolfsbane. He seems pretty concerned about you and Cora. So if you could give me a call back, that would be pretty great. Thanks."

He snaps his phone shut, drops it onto the dash and climbs into the Jeep, shutting the door and rolling up the window. It's starting to get dark and the temperature is already dropping. He starts the engine and cranks up the heat, but he's low on gas and it won't be more than a couple of hours before he has to cut the engine and go without the heat.

He glances at his sleeping companion. He's just saved this guy's ass and now he's going to freeze to death. Again, how is this his life?

_Freaking werewolves_.

**- 0 – 0 – 0-**

He wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep, but suddenly there are hands on his shoulders shaking him and a sharp, loud voice tugging at the edges of his mind, yanking him out of the comforting darkness of sleep.

He groans, hoping whoever's rude enough to wake him up gets the message to _go away_, but fingers dig in to his shoulders then, shaking him harder, and the voice is urgent, growling at him.

"_Stiles, wake up_!"

He opens his eyes reluctantly and is suddenly horribly aware of how _cold_ he is. He's trembling, teeth chattering, and it's like ice has taken home in his bones. He huffs out a breath and it makes a white cloud in front of his face. It's dark out but the Jeep's interior light is on since the door is open, letting icy air in.

He blinks sleep out of his eyes, sluggish and confused, and focuses on the person still leaning over him, clutching his shoulders. Brown hair, familiar features, pinched expression. He relaxes slightly. He's relatively safe, at least.

"C-Cora," his voice stutters slightly between his chattering teeth. Then he peers over her shoulder at her brother. "Derek. Hey. I s-see you got my m-message."

"Well," Cora mutters, glaring at him as she releases him and jumps back down to the ground, like somehow this is all _his _fault. "He's alive. Not sure if that's a good thing or not."

"_Hey_!"

"Get him in the car and warm him up," Derek tells her calmly. "I'll check on Mason."

So the werewolf still crashed out beside him is called Mason. Good to know. It's a testament to just how frozen and out of it Stiles is that he lets Cora drag him none too gently out of the Jeep and follows her numbly to the Camaro parked a few feet away. It looks warm and inviting and he lets Cora push him into the back seat.

"Don't lie down," she snaps when he lists slightly to the side. "And don't go to sleep."

"Why?" he asks, blinking dumbly at her. "It's night."

She rolls her eyes and grabs a thick blanket from the front seat, wrapping it around him, then peels off her own jacket and holds it out for him. He frowns slightly. He can't take her coat. She'll freeze.

"Werewolf," she drawls impatiently, looking like she's praying for the patience not to strangle him. "We run hot."

He manages a nod and she throws the jacket over his shoulders. She disappears for a moment and when she returns, she's got Derek's leather jacket in her hand. She adds that on top of her own but he still feels frozen to the core. He's vaguely aware that he's still shaking hard, teeth clacking together, and each blink has him wanting to keep his eyes shut so he can sleep.

"Don't," Cora slaps his face slightly, jolting him awake. "We need to get you warmed up. There's a motel not far from here, okay? Just don't sleep."

He blinks and nods sluggishly. She sighs at that but clearly trusts him to do as she says because she closes the door and disappears. Stiles stares straight ahead out of the windshield, not letting his body slump even slightly, because then he'll be tempted to lie right down...and then he'll be tempted to go to sleep.

Derek appears moments later, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine. Stiles must mutter something about his Jeep because he meets his gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Cora will be right behind us in your Jeep."

Stiles relaxes at that and focuses on getting warm. Derek's silent for the whole journey, but Stiles isn't really expecting anything different, considering its _Derek_, broody werewolf and man of few words. He does, however, glance at him in the mirror every now and then to check he's not sleeping or whatever. Stiles doesn't really get what the huge deal is. He's just a little cold.

The gas station, diner and motel are really close together and Derek parks the Camaro in the small car lot outside the motel. Cora parks the Jeep right beside them in the next space and hops out, opening Derek's door to speak to him.

"I'm going to book us a room," he tells her. "When I get back, get Stiles and Mason inside while I get food."

"Whatever you say, _sir_," Cora growls at being ordered around but she does move aside to let Derek climb out and head towards the reception of the motel. She perches in the front seat, legs still outside of the car, and looks at Stiles. "Why am I not surprised that you're involved in this?"

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, not that she can see it beneath the swaddle of blanket and jackets. It's not like this is his fault. For once. He didn't actively go out seeking this shit. In fact, he was trying to _avoid_ this shit, that's why he was out there in the first place. Running away from these kind of problems. This time, the supernatural bullshit found _him_.

"I should call your dad," she mutters.

He shakes his head quickly. She raises her eyebrows at that but thankfully doesn't press the issue. She gazes at him for a long moment and he looks away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and is actually relieved when Derek returns. He wordlessly chucks a room key at Cora and starts towards the diner.

"Alright," Cora rolls her eyes. "Think you can walk?"

He nods and fights his way out of the cocoon of blanket and coats, climbing out of the car. He's still cold but his shivering isn't quite as bad and he feels a lot steadier, less out of it than he did before. Still, she keeps a tight grip on his elbow as she guides him to room 74 and unlocks the door.

It's a cheap motel so Stiles is expecting the low standard of cleanliness inside. It's small, sparsely furnished, the blankets on the two double beds look scratchy and gross, and there's damp on one of the walls. He doesn't even want to see what the bathroom looks like. But he's spent nights in a lot of similar places recently so he's pretty much desensitized to how gross it is and simply stumbles forward, sitting on the end of one of the beds.

Cora eyes him, forehead wrinkled slightly. "Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"Mason got werewolf juice on me."

She seems to get what he means by that and crinkles her nose. "Ick. Gross. Okay, put these on." She gestures to the jackets.

There's no way hers will fit him, so he pulls on Derek's and tugs hers over his shoulders for extra warmth. She wraps him back up in the blanket and adds the covers from one of the double beds. He watches her crank up the heating in the room before she heads back out to get Mason. Werewolf she may be, but Stiles is curious to see how she's going to get an unconscious, muscular werewolf across the car lot and into the room.

When she returns, she's got help; Derek is on Mason's other side and they're sharing the weight, half carrying, half dragging him through the doorway. They dump Mason on the other bed and Derek disappears briefly to collect a bag and tray of drinks from the diner.

"Here," he holds out a cup of coffee.

Stiles takes it, cradling it between his hands for warmth. The ice is slowly thawing from his bones. He hadn't been too bad, nowhere near enough to warrant the concern Cora had shown. He's been through worse. He'd pretty much drowned himself in ice cold water in order to save his dad and the other parents. Being a little cold is nothing compared to that.

He inhales, breathing in the scent of fries and greasy burgers from the bag, and his stomach growls. He'd last eaten yesterday afternoon, a quick turkey sub dunked in gravy and grits from a fast food truck on the side of the road, and he's now aware of just how hungry he is.

Derek hands out the food and Stiles unwraps the bacon burger, quickly taking a bite. It's too greasy, the meat is kind of gristly and the fries are cold in the middle. He knows he'll regret it after when his stomach turns, but right now he's too hungry to care and keeps eating.

"So," he says around a mouthful of fries. "Can you maybe not ignore my calls in the future?"

Derek doesn't so much as look at him. He's busy checking Mason's wounds. Stiles is glad to see that they're almost completely healed.

"What the hell is going on, by the way?" he continues. "Because this guy just appeared in the middle of the road and collapsed right in front of me. He told me that I needed to make sure you guys are safe, which was pointless because you look perfectly fine to me, and directed me to his shack. I managed to get there in time and save him because I'm freaking awesome, but it'd be kind of great if you guys could let me know what's going on."

Derek is silent for a long moment and Cora decides to speak up for them. "None of your business, Stilinski."

"Yeah, no, not gonna fly. Did you not catch the part where I saved this dude's life? It's kind of is my business now."

She narrows her eyes. "What are _you _doing here anyway?"

"I asked first." No way is he going to go into that with them.

She bares her teeth in a silent snarl.

_So Derek's sister. It's uncanny_.

Derek speaks before she can retort. "Hunters," he says. "A whole group of them."

Stiles nods slowly. "I kind of figured. So, what? They ambushed you guys and you two got away?" He crunches up the empty burger wrapper and throws it into the bag. "Also, hi, by the way. How have you guys been since you skipped right on out of town without a word?"

Cora's upper lip curls. "You got a problem, Stilinski?"

He deflates a little. He's not really angry anyway. He's...he's not _sure _what he is. He hasn't been much of anything in a long time and that's kind of the problem. He sighs and takes a long drink of coffee, relishing the warmth of it, before continuing the conversation.

"No," he answers honestly. "A lot of shit went down back there and, well, I get that Beacon Hills has a lot of bad memories for you two. I get it, I really do. I just...it would have been cool if you at least told Scott before you left, even if it was just a text. We were worried."

Cora rolls her eyes. "Like you actually care about us."

"Yeah, 'cause it's not like I've worked my ass off to keep your brother alive. Or that I gave you CPR in that ambulance last time we saw each other." Stiles points out.

Her expression goes even colder at that and, seriously, what is her _problem_?

"Anyway," he chews on a fry. "So. This is where you guys ended up, huh?"

Derek shakes his head. "We're just passing through."

_Okay. So forthcoming with the information there, Derek_.

"Well, alrighty, then," Stiles fights his way out of all the blankets and shoves his empty cup and trash into the garbage can. "I'm just gonna get my bag from the Jeep."

They don't answer him, busy having some kind of sibling stare down, and Stiles zips Derek's jacket up against the cold as he heads out of the room. He jogs across the car lot, breath puffing white in front of his face, and grabs his duffel bag out of the back of the Jeep. He gets his phone as well and zips it into one of the side pockets. When he returns, Cora's switched on the crappy portable TV and is watching an old horror movie and Derek's in the bathroom. Stiles can hear the shower running. Mason's still starfished out on one of the double beds, snoring quietly.

Stiles unzips his duffel and rummages through it. He'd only packed this bag and a backpack before heading out of Beacon Hills; the backpack's full of books and stuff like that, the duffel's packed with all the clothes he could fit inside. The last time he'd washed them was two motels back, since the place had actually had a decent washing room with cheap machines. He needs to check if there's a washing room here so hopefully he can wash his clothes before he heads out in the morning.

He manages to find a clean pair of boxers, old navy sweatpants and a grey long sleeved shirt. He plans on throwing his jeans out. They're old and ratty anyway, so he's not too bothered that they're now ruined thanks to Mason throwing up on him.

Derek leaves the bathroom a few minutes later and Stiles wordlessly passes him, shutting and locking the door behind him. The bathroom is gross and the dark green tiles and hideously patterned shower curtain doesn't help its unclean look at all. There's a stack of towels by the sink but there's no way he's going to use them and risk catching something. He does, however, use one of them to wipe away the grime in the shower before stepping in. He showers quickly – he hates spending too long in motel bathrooms – and it feels good to wash his hair and get rid of the dust and black gunk on his skin. Once he feels clean and more refreshed, he steps out and dresses immediately, wincing when the material of the sweatpants and shirt cling to his still damp skin.

He stuffs the jeans into the garbage can by the sink and carries his sneakers and Derek's jacket back into the room. He hands Derek his jacket back and sits on the floor, legs drawn up to his chest and back pressed against the bed frame. After a moment, he reaches up and drags his duffel to the floor next to him, getting his wallet out of one of the side pockets.

"Listen, er, thanks for. You know. Yeah." He clears his throat. "How much do I owe you for the food and my share of the room?"

He pulls out what little cash he still has in the wallet and holds it out for Derek to take, but he folds his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows just slightly at Stiles. When it's obvious he's not going to take the money, Cora rolls her eyes and snatches the notes out of Stiles' hand, flicking through them.

"Cora," Derek says.

"What? He's offering." She snaps back, pocketing the money.

"Anyway," Stiles interrupts. "I'll head out early tomorrow morning."

Derek nods. "Where are you headed?"

He looks down, fiddling with his phone. "Nowhere."

"What? You just drove all the way out here for no reason?" Cora sneers.

He shrugs, flipping the phone open and closed again.

"You haven't been in Beacon Hills for a while," she adds. "Earlier, the way you smelled, it's obvious you've been travelling for a while. Long enough that McCall's scent has faded from your skin."

"Does it matter?" Stiles looks at her then. "I'm eighteen now. It's summer break. Can't I go on a roadtrip without being interrogated?"

"A roadtrip," Cora repeats flatly. "Alone. With no destination in mind. You're pretty weird, you know that, right?"

"Wow, I realize now just how much I did _not_ miss you."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Yeah, well, like I said. I'm heading out early tomorrow and we can go our separate ways again."

"Awesome," her tone is saccharine.

"Great."

"Wonderful."

"Shut up," Derek cuts in. "Both of you."

Stiles is tempted to retort but he's exhausted and he needs to get some sleep if he's planning on heading out early tomorrow.

"Whatever," he mutters. "So. Sleeping arrangements?"

"Cora and I'll take this one." Derek sits on the empty bed and swings his legs up.

He hadn't been expecting Derek to suggest Stiles share a bed with his younger sister and he hadn't really thought Derek would share a bed with him and make Cora sleep with some other male werewolf either, but still. He eyes Mason, disgruntled.

"Yeah, no offence, but I don't really want to share a bed with Sleeping Beauty over there. Especially when he wakes up all grumpy after the whole being shot with wolfsbane thing."

"Then sleep on the floor," Derek answers flatly. "I don't really care."

Stiles looks between the grimy carpet and the unconscious werewolf and sighs. "Fine. But if I get mauled in my sleep, I'm coming back to haunt you."

Derek doesn't grace that with a response, though Cora snorts. Stiles rolls up onto his feet and moves to the other bed, fisting his hands in the sheets and tugging hard. They slide inch by inch from underneath Mason until he's only on the mattress and Stiles lies down as far from him as possible, precariously close to the edge of the bed, and cocoons himself in the blankets. He feels a little bad, but Mason's a werewolf and already unconscious, whereas Stiles is human and cold.

It's chilly, the blankets _are _horribly scratchy and it's difficult to sleep with three werewolves in the room, especially when he's next to one he doesn't even know. But he closes his eyes, focuses on the sound of his deep, even breathing, and exhaustion finally pulls him under.

**- 0 – 0 – 0-**

When he wakes up, it's to a dark room, though pale light is filtering through the thin curtains. He yawns, blinking sleep from his eyes as he reaches blindly for his phone. He winces as the bright light of the display assaults his eyes but once they adjust, he looks at the time. Close to six o'clock in the morning.

He doesn't feel like he'd slept well. His body is cold and aches and he wants to snuggle down in the sheets and sleep some more. Instead, he ignores his body's reluctance to get up and swings his legs out of bed, stretching. Derek and Cora are still fast asleep on the other bed and Mason is nowhere to be seen. He's kind of grateful for that; he wants to avoid the awkward post-life-saving-sharing-of-the-bed thing.

He uses the bathroom, swaps his sweatpants for a pair of jeans and pulls a thin hooded sweatshirt on over the grey shirt. He shoves the sweatpants into the duffel, zips it up, shoves his feet into his sneakers and heads out of the motel room, closing the door softly behind him. He throws his bag into the back of the Jeep and climbs into the driver's seat, but he sits sideways, legs still out of the open door. It's warm out and the temperature is gradually rising; by noon, it'll be as blistering hot as yesterday.

He deletes the texts and voicemails without looking at them and opens his contacts book. Allison's is at the top of the list and he clicks on it, pressing the phone to his ear as it dials through.

"Stiles?" her voice is thick with sleep when she answers.

"Hey, Allison."

"So you're alive, then."

He winces. "Yeah. Um. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch recently."

"Screw that," her tone is hard. "Scott's been going crazy, you know that? _Everyone _has. You just suddenly dropped out of contact, Stiles. He's planning on trying to track you down."

"Don't," he says quickly. "I'm fine, honestly. Just peachy. I, er, I just need some time, you know? Get my head sorted. I'm sorry I stopped checking in with you guys. I just need to be alone for a while."

"You can't just _do _that, Stiles," she sighs. "We're worried about you. What if something happens? Or we need to get in contact with you?"

He doesn't have an answer for her. She has a point. Of course she does; she's Allison. As logical as she is lovely. But he's not going to make promises he knows he probably can't keep, so he simply swallows and remains silent.

"When are you coming home?" she asks softly. "We all miss you."

He doesn't have an answer to that either. But he figures she already knows the truth anyway, she's just doing what everyone, including him, have been doing lately: acting like everything is okay.

"You can't. Your dad misses you, Stiles. We _all_ do. We need you back."

"I don't know, Allison," he tells her quietly. "Soon."

She knows that's a lie. There's a long pause and he wonders if she'll press the issue, maybe yell at him like he deserves, but then he hears a breathy sigh.

"Okay. That's...okay. But you'll call us if anything happens, right?"

"Yeah. But, look, I called because I sort of," he bounces his knee up and down, narrowing his eyes against the sun. "There were some hunters around these parts yesterday. I know it's unlikely that they'll go to Beacon Hills of all places, but I thought I'd give you a heads up just in case."

"Wait, what?" her voice sharpens. "You encountered some hunters? What happened?"

"I didn't encounter them personally," he reassures her quickly. "Like I said, I'm fine. I just wanted to warn you just in case they do visit Beacon Hills. They might know that some of you Argents live there, you know?"

"My uncle called yesterday. My uncle on my mom's side, that is. Him and his wife are coming to visit in a couple of weeks. They're hunters too."

Stiles winces at that. He can hear the soft resignation in Allison's voice and wishes he had something to reassure her with, but, truthfully, it's too much of a coincidence to ignore. Her uncle and his wife have to be the hunters that were here yesterday, if they're visiting in a couple of weeks. Maybe they're not, like, total raging psychopaths like Kate and Gerard, but, really, it seems to be a trend in the Argent family, Chris and Allison being the exemption that proves the rule.

"Maybe I should come back?" he suggests quietly. He won't be much help, not really, but for emotional support, at least.

"No," her answer is spoken on a heavy exhale. "No, it's fine. I was speaking to Lydia about this yesterday and she said we should leave you be, that it's up to you if you return or not. I guess she's right. Do what you have to, Stiles, okay?"

He closes his eyes briefly. Lydia Martin, an absolute goddess among mortals. He's lucky to have her as his friend, he really is. She understands him, understands his motives for leaving, and she's willing to defend him against their other friends. He kind of wants to kiss her right now.

"Okay," he agrees. "I just...call me if anything happens, okay? I'll answer. I promise."

"Good."

He's about to finish up the call when a thought occurs to him. "Just your uncle and his wife?"

"What?"

"Visiting, I mean," he clarifies. "Did your uncle say it was just him and his wife?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"Derek said there was a whole group of hunters."

"Derek?" she repeats, surprised. "Derek _Hale_?"

"It's a long story. I bumped into him and Cora yesterday. It was them who encountered the hunters."

"Right," she takes a moment to let that sink in, clearly still caught off guard with the information. "I don't know. Maybe they've gone separate ways or..." she trails off.

"Or the rest of the hunters are still hanging around," he finishes. "Awesome."

"I'll speak to my uncle when I can, see if I can get any information out of him."

"Thanks, Allison, but be careful."

"Always," is her dry response. "We'll talk soon, okay?"

"Sure," he agrees quickly. "Bye, Allison."

He hangs up and tosses his phone from hand to hand, gazing out at the car lot. More likely than not, two of the hunters that were involved in whatever went down with Mason yesterday are linked to Chris and Allison Argent. And they're heading for Beacon Hills, where there's a substantial wolf pack, the Alpha being _Scott_. Regardless of what Allison and her dad say about their new code, it's likely her uncle will try and go after Scott and his pack. And Lydia, if they find out that she's not exactly human either.

He can't stay or continue on elsewhere. He hadn't planned on returning to Beacon Hills, maybe not ever, but it doesn't matter what he wants. His friends are in danger. He can't just walk away from that and leave them to deal with it alone. He knows he's selfish, has been unfair recently, but he's not gonna walk away from Scott, not when his best friend might be targeted by hunters.

It's time to go back.

But, knowing their luck, if the rest of the hunters aren't with Allison's uncle, it's unlikely they've moved on somewhere else. They're probably still lurking around, tracking down the Hale siblings, and it won't be long until they find them, considering this is one of the few motels around for miles. Derek and Cora can handle themselves, sure, but against a whole _group_ of hunters? Out here with no back up? Stiles may not exactly be buddies with them, but he can't just walk away from them either, not knowing that they'll likely be ambushed again soon. He just hasn't got the heart to do that.

So, what? Go back to Beacon Hills and leave them to handle the hunters? Or stay with them and leave his friends back in Beacon Hills to handle Allison's uncle? It's unlikely that Derek and Cora will let him stay with them, anyway. They'll probably turn him away. But that doesn't mean he feels good about leaving them.

Unless he can convince them to go back to Beacon Hills and help too.

It's unlikely that he'll be able to persuade them to go back to that town, where they lost their family and have been through some pretty rough shit ever since, to go back to that place full of their demons simply to help people they're barely even friends with (and completely the opposite in some cases). But it's worth a shot.

Decision made, he pockets his phone and jumps out of the Jeep – and in doing so, collides with someone. He yelps and flails slightly, stumbling to regain his balance, and squints his eyes against the sun to look at Mason.

"Oh, hey, Wolverine," he greets. "Nice to see you up and, you know, not dead."

A tanned hand is thrust towards him. "Stiles, right?"

He nods, shaking Mason's hand. "That's me."

"You saved my life."

"That I did."

"Thank you," Mason's eyes are clear green now the wolfsbane is out of his system and full of earnest.

"It's cool," Stiles shrugs. "It tends to be a thing with me. Saving werewolves, that is. Not sure why but it is. Actually, I should make a business out of it."

If Mason is perturbed by Stiles' quick rambling, he doesn't show it, instead smiling warmly. "Seriously, thank you. You could have just left me."

"Yeah, well, I never can resist a damsel in distress," Stiles eyes the bloody clothes Mason's still wearing. "You need a shirt? I doubt any of mine will fit you but if you stay in public looking like that you're gonna give someone a coronary."

"Derek will take me back to my cabin," Mason shakes his head. "I'll pick up some clothes then."

"Cabin? You mean that old shack?" He blanches when he realizes he said that out loud. "Shit. Wow. Foot in mouth syndrome. Ignore me."

Mason simply offers a toothy smile. "It's fine. I know it isn't much, but it's done me well since I moved down here from Toronto, so I haven't had the heart to upgrade."

Stiles eyes him. With the plaid clothing, polite, smooth charm and the whole Canadian thing, he kind of reminds him of a cross between Wolverine and a moose. He definitely wouldn't look out of place on some old ranch, chopping up wood, helping sweet old women and wooing some virtuous young maiden or something. He's totally a country bumpkin.

"Alright, well," Stiles shifts slightly. "I'm gonna go talk to Derek about something."

"I've been sent to get breakfast," Mason tells him. "You want anything?"

"I'm out of cash."

"Derek's making Cora pay."

Stiles laughs at that. Cora buying him breakfast with the money she snatched from him? He's totally on board with that.

"In that case, sure. I'll just have a breakfast muffin and coffee. Thanks."

Mason salutes him and starts towards the diner, whistling cheerfully. Stiles stares at him for a moment. The guy was ambushed and shot by hunters yesterday and nearly died, and one day later he's whistling show tunes? Actual puppy, Stiles is sure of it. Then something occurs to him.

"Hey, Mason, wait," he calls out and jumps into the Jeep, leaning over the seat to rummage around in his duffel bag.

Mason appears next to him. "Yeah?"

Stiles grabs one of his oversized flannel shirts and holds it out. "Here. Put this on. Otherwise you'll terrify the poor waitress."

Mason chuckles. "Thanks."

When Mason's decently covered up, Stiles heads back towards the motel room. He's not sure what he's going to say to Derek to persuade him that it's a good idea to head back to Beacon Hills with him and help. He's just kinda hoping that natural Stiles charm will show up and do the talking for him.

He snorts. _Right_.

**- 0 – 0 – 0 –**

"No."

That's pretty much the response Stiles had expected, but still. His speech had been fucking _sparkling_. It's just Derek's a grumpy S.O.B who's immune to Stiles' puppy dog eyes (kind of patented from Scott, but still). He sighs, fiddling with the lid of his coffee cup.

"Look, I get it. Beacon Hills isn't exactly full of happy memories for you. I don't want to go back either. But they might need our help."

"_Might_," Cora repeats pointedly. "You don't know for sure that they'll be targeted by the hunters. And if they are, they're a whole pack. They can handle it."

"I just have a bad feeling about this, okay? And my bad feelings aren't usually trivial. Remember Matt?" he looks at Derek. "I just...I know I need to go back and help."

"So go. We're not stopping you."

"Yes, but it's likely that the rest of the group are still here. They'll find and ambush you." Stiles has told them this already, but he feels it bears repeating. "You're in danger too."

"You're worried about us?" Cora raises an eyebrow doubtfully.

"Honestly? Yeah."

"Well, aren't you just a regular bleeding heart?" She says sarcastically. "Really? A group of hunters? We can handle it."

"Look, _please_," he knows there's a hint of whining to his voice but he doesn't care. "They're our friends."

"_Your _friends," she corrects.

"Okay, fine, but we've helped you guys out before."

"Because it suited you," she shakes her hair over her shoulders, pinning him with a nasty look. "If you hadn't already been involved and needing to protect your friends and family, would you have still helped us?"

"Yes."

"Look, I don't want to sound like a jerk, but _we got out_. I found my brother and we got out of that town and we have a _chance_ here, Stiles. Why would I go back there and get involved in all that again?"

Stiles turns to Derek. "What about Isaac? He's in danger."

"What about him?" Derek's eyebrows pull together. "He's not my pack anymore."

"Yeah, but you're still the one who turned him. You can't cut that tie, no matter what you do. Surely you're not just gonna turn your back on him completely?"

"Stiles," there's a hint of a growl to his voice now. "Drop it."

"Look, _please_, just help us and then you can ride off into the sunset again, okay? This is the safest option."

"Are you asking us because you really think you need our help, or to satisfy your guilt at leaving us here when there are hunters tracking us?" Cora asks.

"A bit of both," he admits. There's no point lying to werewolves. His heartbeat would give him away.

"What makes you think you can help them? They're a wolf pack with a banshee and hunters on their side. You're just human. What makes you think you can help _us _if you stay?" Cora points out. "_Not_ that we'd want you to stay with us anyway."

"Yeah, thanks for that," he mutters. "I know I'm human. But I'm not useless."

One eyebrow raises sceptically, but he's not going to waste breath defending his corner. Back in Beacon Hills, he was useful, even before he knew about his spark. He's good at research and coming up with plans and keeping people safe. He's good at saving the lives of werewolves, given his track record with Derek, of all people. And now he has that spark of magic within him to make him even more useful. Sure, he's nowhere near on the same level as Scott or Allison and in actual combat situations, he'd have his ass handed to him in seconds. But he can at least contribute _something_ if he goes back, rather than just walk away from the situation like a coward.

"We just got out, Stiles. We're not going to willingly put ourselves back in all that mess. If you were smart, you wouldn't either. Just continue doing whatever you were doing before. Walk away."

"I can't do that," he shakes his head. "They're my friends."

"Then you're an idiot."

He looks between them, resigned. "I'm not going to convince you, am I?"

Cora shakes her head. Derek doesn't answer. He can't help but feel bitter disappointment towards them, especially Derek. He's rude and violent and they don't exactly have a good history, but Stiles didn't take him for someone to just walk away from a fight, especially when fighting meant helping those he cares about. But this is what he's doing now.

"Fine," he gets to his feet and throws away his trash. "I guess I'm heading off then."

"Stiles," Cora says. "Don't be an idiot. You don't wanna go back."

"My friends are in danger. I kind of have to." He heads to the door and opens it, fully prepared to just leave, but Derek's voice stops him.

"Stiles," he says quietly. "Be careful."

Stiles almost snorts at the advice but settles for muttering, "Yeah. You too."

And then he leaves, heading to his Jeep without looking back. He gets out his GPS system and programs in his home address in Beacon Hills. He switches the travel CD for one of his _Ramones_ discs and peels out of the car lot. The familiar sounds of one of his favorite bands fills the Jeep and he settles back in the driver's seat. For the first time in a while, he has a destination in mind. It's not the place he wants to go, but it's where he needs to be.

He doesn't look back.

But of course it's just his brand of shitty luck that two days later, he gets taken from a motel by a group of hunters.

* * *

**I have a tumblr: lokisinmydivision**

**Come talk Teen Wolf with me?**


	2. Chapter 2

**PLEASE NOTE: after this chapter, the story will mostly have canon typical violence. However, this chapter includes the following potential triggers, so if these are likely to upset you, please don't read: kidnapping, chloroform, (mentioned, not detailed) torture, graphic depictions of violence and injuries and graphic depictions of blood. **

* * *

He's been alone since he left Derek and Cora and he's alone now in a motel. It's reasonably nice, actually, even if he's just staying here for one night to catch up on sleep. He's hasn't got far to go now until he's back in Beacon Hills.

Which is why he's kind of annoyed when he heads out of the bathroom after a shower, ready to just crash on the bed and sleep, and suddenly a strong arm wraps around his torso from behind, because he was _so close_. He has a second to think '_huh_?' - because, come on, he's just human, he can't sense when there's danger close by or whatever and he _really _hadn't seen this coming – before something closes over his nose and mouth. A horrible smell fills his nostrils and through the panic he realizes, _chloroform_.

_Well, it's nicer than using brute strength to knock me out, I'll give them that_.

He struggles for a second, holds his breath to try and avoid breathing it in, but it's useless. He manages to scratch deep enough into his assailant's arm that they swear loudly from behind him and his own nail breaks, but the grip doesn't loosen at all and he knows it's too late, can already feel the fog descending. The strong, sweet scent makes him gag, wanting to throw up. His limbs go numb and his body slumps; his vision and hearing are next to go.

Then his eyes shut and he's completely gone.

* * *

_I'm an idiot._

_Should've seen this coming._

_Didn't think that the hunters were watching us at the motel. That they saw me with Derek and Cora and saw me leaving alone._

_Didn't even consider the possibility that they might follow me instead. Easy target. Associated with wolves. Good way to get to Derek and Cora. _

_I didn't even think of this possibility. I really should have._

_Too late now._

His brain's working fast, which is odd considering the powerful nausea he feels and the horrible, light but buzzing headache. He feels like the floor's rolling beneath him, his body all out of sorts, and he breathes deeply through his nose, trying to get rid of the dizziness. He kind of feels like he's hungover but, like, five times worse.

He's reluctant to open his eyes. Partly because of how he's feeling but mostly because he doesn't know what he'll see. He's sprawled out on cold concrete and he's freezing but other than the after effects of the chloroform, physically, he feels fine. He doesn't know how long he was out for or where he is.

Finally, when the headache settles to something he can mostly ignore and the nausea passes, he slowly opens his eyes. He's expecting something horrific like in the movies; maybe some horrible torture chamber, or dead bodies, or even just the hunters that kidnapped him in the first place. Instead, he's faced with a concrete wall.

Oh.

He listens carefully but since the only sound is his own breathing, he's pretty sure he's alone. He pushes himself into a sitting position and turns until his back is pressed to the wall, looking round the room.

It's small, just concrete ceiling, floor and walls, with a metal door – like something in a prison but with the panel shut so he can't see outside – and no windows; it's lit by a bare light bulb.

"Of course, no central heating," he mutters. "Figures."

He gets to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself to try and retain body heat. He can't tell if it's day or night or even what day it is. For all he knows, they could have kept him dosed to keep him under for a long time. He lifts his arm and sniffs; he doesn't smell too bad, a little sweaty, maybe, so it can't have been more than a couple of days at most.

His mouth feels dry and gross. He swallows, wishing he'd woken up to a bottle of water at least, and crosses the room to the door. He's in the same clothes he was wearing when they took him – green T-shirt and gray sweatpants, but no shoes since he'd been fresh out the shower – and he winces at how cold the floor is against his bare feet.

He knows the door will be locked but he tries anyway. He figures, though, that there's nothing beyond the basic locking mechanism of the door. They wouldn't reinforce it at all, not for him, a human.

Which will make it easier to break out of here, if he only has to bust one lock.

He presses his hands flat against the cold metal of the door, closes his eyes and exhales deeply. He focuses, reaching deep to find that small spark and draw it out. It's weaker than usual and it takes him more than ten minutes to manipulate it. His guess is it's a result of the chloroform still in his system – it makes him and his magic sluggish. If he could, he'd wait, but the hunters could come in at any moment and he doesn't know what they'll do now he's awake. He figures his best shot is if he gets out now and deals with what's on the other side of the door when he gets to it.

Finally, he feels the magic spreading through him, warming him up, a light, buzzing energy filling him. He pushes it out, into the door, concentrating on his intent to get the door open, and he feels the metal heat up under his hands. He doesn't open his eyes or remove his hands, just breathes deeply and focuses on letting his magic flow steadily through the contact he has on the door. A couple of minutes later, he hears several mechanical clicks.

_Score_.

He's exhausted now and cold again as his magic retreats. He knows he won't be able to use it for a while, he's fried himself on this one task, but the door is open and that's all that matters. It's heavy but he manages to push it open and he steps out into a narrow corridor lit by more bare light bulbs. There are cells like his on each side, lining the corridor, and a thin wooden door at the end. He's willing to bet anything that the wood is imbued with mountain ash.

He listens against the door for a few minutes but when he's certain there's no one on the other side, he turns the handle, praying it's not locked.

"Fuck," he mutters when it doesn't open. Of course they'd locked it. They're not idiots.

He doesn't think he can access his magic again to unlock it. If he does, it'll take too much energy and he's already exhausted. But the door's thin. Maybe he can break it down? He's always wanted to try the badass kicking-down-doors thing from the movies. He's just never got the chance.

"Here's your chance, Stilinski," he mutters, licking his lips before backing up. "Okay. Okay, I can do this."

He kicks the door as hard as he can – and _fuck_. He yelps as pain shoots up his shin bone and he stumbles back, falling on his ass. He brings his leg up to his chest, massaging it to try and ease the pain. The door hasn't so much as moved an inch.

He swears under his breath as he gets to his feet. His leg hurts like a bitch but he can put weight on it fine so he figures it's nothing serious. He's not going to give up; he needs to get out of here while he has the chance.

He tries twice more with similar results, but on his fourth kick, he aims it closer to the handle and lock and the door bends inwards slightly. He kicks again on the same spot a few more times and, finally, the frame splinters and the door breaks away. He yanks it open the rest of the way, not caring that the hinges break with it.

On the other side is a set of stairs leading up to another freaking _door_. He swears under his breath. He can walk fine but his leg hurts and feels weak after breaking open just one door. He jogs up the stairs and tries the handle.

This time, the door swings open. Guess the hunters figured that if a werewolf managed to break free of their cell, they wouldn't get past the mountain ash imbued door.

He takes in the hallway he's stood in, blinking. He realizes that the cells must have been built into the basement of a house. It's old and rundown, unfurnished, and it kind of reminds him of the old Hale house, just a little less...burnt to a shell. Clearly the hunters don't live here (or if they _do_, they seriously have terrible cleaning habits) but keep werewolves here.

He's not sure how far it is from a road or civilization, but it must be reasonably far for them to get away with kidnapping people and taking them here to keep in freaking _cells_. He makes for the front door, but stops with his hand on the handle when he hears a muffled thud from the room to his right.

He holds his breath, heart thudding in his chest. There are people here. He can make a break for it now but they'd hear him and chase him. They'd probably catch him, too – trained hunters, after all. But he can't stay here, frozen in the hallway. Eventually one or more will leave that room and find him.

Then it occurs to him that if they're here, they _must _have heard him kicking the door. Yet they hadn't gone down to see what was happening.

Another muffled thud rings out and he makes a snap decision. He might be completely wrong and about to get his ass beaten or killed, but if those thuds are coming from someone else that's being held here, he can't in good conscience just leave them here.

Cora's right; he's totally a bleeding heart. It's going to get him killed someday.

He opens the door to what should be a living room but is bare of furnishings and covered in leaves and other debris, the windows boarded up, though sunlight filters through the cracks – it's daytime, then.

Cora and Derek are in the centre of the room. They're tied up, hanging from the ceiling with just their tiptoes brushing the floor, dangling from their wrists. They're facing each other with a few feet between them and a line of mountain ash encircles them, so even if they managed to break free of the chains, they're still trapped. Stiles isn't sure if there are electric currents running through the chains or if wolfsbane is involved, but either way, they haven't managed to get free.

"_Of course_ you two are here as well," he mutters. "My luck just gets better and better."

He's not sure how long they've been here. They're not in the same clothes they were in at the motel when Stiles left. He can't tell if the hunters grabbed him before going after the Hales, or the other way round, or maybe they split up and took them at the same time. It doesn't really matter; the hunters succeeded, that's what matters, and Stiles needs to get them out of here.

The thuds must have been coming from Cora trying to stamp her feet on the floor to get his attention (she must have smelled or heard him, knew he was out there, knew he was free). Doing so, however, means she's dislocated both shoulders in order to drag herself down and stamp her foot. That explains the squeal then, a scream of agony muffled by the tape over her mouth. Her hair is swept back and matted with sweat and she's crying, making new tracks over already dried paths on her cheeks.

_How long have they been here_? It can't have been long but the hunters have done a lot of damage in that time.

Derek seems to be unconscious, his head slumped against his chest, and Stiles realizes as he gets closer why they're facing each other.

So Cora can watch Derek get tortured.

There's dried blood on Derek's clothes and he doesn't dare look, doesn't want to see the damage – he's already sickened from just looking at Cora's dislocated arms dangling like that, still trying to support her body weight, _fuck_ it must be agonizing – but he can see the slashes in Derek's clothes where they've used blades, the holes where they've used guns, knowing he'll heal but it'll hurt like hell anyway. He can see the scorches where they've used fire and electricity.

Cora seems mostly unhurt besides her shoulders. They've been hurting Derek, not her. _Why_? To force her to watch him get tortured, definitely. But maybe it's her turn next. Stiles' stomach turns but he knows he hasn't got time to be weak now. He breathes hard against the urge to retch and it's the memory of being told that being held like that, dangling from your wrists, means your chest is constricted and if you can't hold yourself up, you'll die, that pulls him together. Cora can't hold herself up now her shoulders are dislocated and Derek's unconscious. He needs to be quick.

He goes to Cora first. Derek's the most damaged but he's out cold and Cora needs to be let down. Her shoulders can't support her like that for much longer. There are red, bleeding welts on her wrists where the tight chains have rubbed the skin and he realizes they must be coated in wolfsbane or something since the wounds haven't healed – that's why they haven't been able to break free.

He reaches up, fumbles with the chains, trying to figure out how to get them undone as quickly as possible. Cora's sobbing, breathing hard against the tape over her mouth, and he looks into her eyes, tries to reassure her that it'll be okay while he focuses on unknotting the chains.

"It's okay," he whispers. "We'll get out of here. Derek...Derek will be okay."

He manages to get one knot undone and her left arm slumps but she screams as all her weight is then supported by her right shoulder. He curses, apologizes quickly and scrabbles to loosen the other knot. He's looking up at the chains, focusing on the task, when Cora released a muffled cry.

He looks back at her, swallowing. "Almost done, okay? It'll be..."

But her eyes aren't on him, they're focused over his shoulder and wide with alarm. He turns round – straight into the butt of a gun.

His body spins to the ground and he lands on his front, blinking sluggishly at a pair of boots inches from his face, and he tries to fight against the darkness, he _does_, but it's a losing battle and he loses his grip on consciousness.

* * *

When he wakes, it's to a pounding head and sticky blood on his face. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, and when he feels like he can move his head without his brain exploding, he looks up from the floor.

He's in the same room as Cora and Derek still, but he's tied to a chair a few feet from them. There's rope around his wrists, ankles, even around his middle. He can't even budge an inch. They're really not taking any chances this time.

The blood's coating the right side of his face and it's mostly dried, making his face feel stiff. The wound it must be coming from at his hairline is pulsing with pain, making him feel like he's going to be sick, but he forces it down and makes himself look at the hunter stood a few feet away from him.

"I think I preferred the chloroform," he says. His voice is hoarse but he manages to keep it level, at least.

There are five of them in total, three guys and two women, their ages varying from late twenties to mid thirties, all in some type of combat clothing. The clear leader is the one stood at the front, gun still in hand, not trained on Stiles but he's willing to bet it will be in a fraction of a second if he makes a move they don't like. He's tall and well built, with an average face, short blond hair and blue eyes. He looks as normal as Chris Argent and Stiles knows he's probably as lethal.

He glances at Cora and Derek. Cora's almost completely out of it, head slumped against her chest, her eyes barely open, but her shoulders appear to have healed, at least. Derek's awake now, too, and covered in water – they must have woken him up with a splash of icy water. His eyes are trained on the hunters and his expression is stoic, but there's a hardness to his jaw that Stiles recognizes as the look he gets when he's about to tear someone's throat out.

These guys have hurt his sister. Stiles knows that the second he gets a chance to break free and go after them, hunters or not, these fuckers are _dead_. That doesn't really make him feel better, considering now he's tied to a chair, the odds of Derek getting free aren't great.

"How did you get out?" the leader's voice is loud and like steel, touched slightly by an accent Stiles can't place. "You're human. You shouldn't have got outta that cell."

Stiles forces a grin to his face, ignoring how it feels like its cracking his skull open. "You left the door unlocked."

The guy raises his gun, looking like he's going to strike again, and Stiles backs his head away as far as he can, wincing.

"Wait, wait!"

He lowers his weapon again but says flatly, "You have twenty seconds to live. Fill it with words."

"Okay, ignoring the fact that you've clearly stolen your lines from some shit mafia movie," he says, swallowing when his expression darkens at the insult, "You can't hurt me."

He's not really sure what compelled him to say that. It's almost like a freaking taunt, _hurt me if you can_. He's just letting his mouth run, trying to come up with something, _anything_, on the spot to avoid getting his skull cracked open by the dude's gun. But now it's out there, he's going to run with it.

"And why not?" This comes from one of the women, a broad brunette with a scar on her chin.

"Because of the code," his dry throat clicks as he swallows. "You said it yourself, I'm human, right? Not a werewolf. You can't kill me, it's against the code."

His declaration is met with laughter, which, _not awesome_. A horrible, itchy feeling claws its way from his gut to his throat. He doesn't know why they're laughing but it's not a great sign that they are, considering they're laughing at the idea that they can't kill him.

Oh holy hell, he's going to die. He's going to be killed by hunters out in God knows where and his dad and friends will never know what happened. He's going to die and his only company is _Derek and Cora Hale_.

"Oh, honey," the brunette drawls, drawing closer until she's leaning over him, dark curls ticking his face. He leans his face away as much as he can but she grips his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes as she says, "_What_ code?"

His heart drops into his gut. "The – the _code_. You know, the hunter's code. You can't kill children, you can only go after werewolves that have harmed humans. You can't kill humans and, hey, human right here."

"There is no code, not anymore," she shakes her head, backing off. "There hasn't been a code in a _long _time. Not since Gerard Argent dropped off the grid."

Stiles closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He's seen what hunters who don't follow a code are like and it is _not _pleasant and now he's trapped in a room full of them. It doesn't look like they'd be kept up at night plagued by guilt if they killed him.

"Besides," the leader adds. "We're not even certain you are human. That door was locked, yet you got it open without a key and without damaging it. No way could a human do that."

"I still maintain that you left it unlocked."

"You've got a smart mouth," his mouth twists into an ugly smile. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Er," he licks his lips, trying to think fast. "I actually have a list of reasons I keep in my back pocket for occasions like this. If you just untie me and let me get it..."

The guy moves fast, Stiles'll give him that; he barely has time to blink before he's leaning over him, face close enough that Stiles can smell his breath. His fingers bite into the bare flesh of Stiles' forearms and he winces, pulling his head back as far as he can.

"Listen here, you little shit," he says quietly, fiercely. "I don't have a lot of patience or mercy for werewolf sympathizers. You protect them, you're scum too. I ain't gonna have any problem putting a bullet in your head. So like I said, _give me one reason not to_."

"I'm just a minor?" Stiles offers, hating how his voice breaks, giving away just how _freaking terrified_ he really is. They don't need to know that he's eighteen. He doesn't really look it anyway. "My dad's a Sheriff?"

"Don't matter. They won't find your body."

_Well. That's comforting._

"Look, man, I don't know what to tell you. I'm human. You left the door unlocked. It's not my problem one of your goonies made a massive screw up." He shrugs, or, well, tries to, considering how restricted his movement is.

"_I locked the damn door_."

He swallows. "Ah."

The guy's expressions twists again into a horrible smile. "Yeah. Exactly. Wanna try that again before I blow your brains out?"

He glances down and notices a streak of red on the guy's arm where he's digging his fingers into Stiles' pulse points. It's a deep scratch and Stiles remembers when he'd been chloroformed, how he'd broken his own nail with the force he put into gouging that mark into his assailant's arm, and he's not sure why knowing that this guy is the fucker who chloroformed him gives him the confidence to pull his next move, but it does.

It's a snap decision and, yeah, it's probably stupid, will get him killed, but this guy's got them all chained up with no chance of help and his threats may not be inventive but they're definitely valid and Stiles thinks _fuck it_.

He rears his head back as far as possible before throwing it forward, his forehead slamming into the guy's nose.

_Sweet holy hell_.

In the movies it totally looks painless for the person doing the head slamming. In reality, not so much. The pain is doubled considering his already existing head wound and he scrunches his eyes shut against the pounding agony and nausea, hissing a long stream of cusses under his breath.

He feels the spray of blood and cartilage against his face and hears the loud shout, a mixture of pain and fury behind it, and he knows he hasn't just broken this dude's nose, he's really fucked it up. He feels both grossed out and a surge of sick satisfaction at that.

Then there's a hand in his hair, gripping it tight and dragging his head back as far as it'll go, exposing his throat and making him choke slightly, wincing at the pain at the base of his skull and his scalp where the guy's pulling at his hair.

He opens his eyes, expecting to see the ceiling.

Instead he looks straight at the gun aimed right between his eyes.

"P-please," it's punched out of him, a breathless, sputtering plea.

He sees the guy then, his nose an exploded mess on his face, and the dude _laughs_. The harsh sound rings in Stiles' ears and his gaze slides to the right; he's just about able to make out Derek and Cora.

It all happens in the space of a second.

All he can see is his father's eyes and all he can think about is that _he's going to die here_, his father, Scott, they'll never know what happened, he'll never see them again, and he just wants to be home, wishes he could see them just one last time. Derek and Cora, they'll be next, this dude's going to blow Stiles' brains out and then kill them and move on to Beacon Hills and _oh God he really doesn't want to die_.

It's pushed out of him along with his choked sob, a pulse of magic that's so much _more_ than he's ever conjured before. It usually takes a long time to reach his magic, to draw it out and use it, and even then it's weak – a spark. But this, _this_ is so much more; this is instant and instinctual and like an actual _force_. He sees the mountain ash circling Cora and Derek scatter in all directions like it's been hit by a violent wind at the same time he hears the chains snap, falling to the ground with an electric sizzling sound.

It's gone as sharply as it had exploded out of him and he slumps, gasping for breath. He feels empty, bereft, like his magic is _gone_, not just buried, and he's totally fried, exhausted. His bones ache and his head's pounding and he's sure that, even with what he'd just done, he's going to get a bullet through the brain any second now. But at least Derek and Cora now have a chance.

But the grip on his hair is suddenly gone and he drops his head, blinking. The gun is pointed at Derek now and Stiles turns his head to look. Cora's on the ground but she's pushing herself up on her hands, trying to stand. Derek, despite his injuries, is on his feet, wolfed out and snarling. His eyes glow electric blue in the dim light as he bends his knees slightly, baring his fangs at the hunters, his body protecting Cora's.

The roar he lets loose is enough to make Stiles' teeth tremble and his heart to pound painfully in his chest. Beyond the insults and empty threats and constant repetitions of "_shut up, Stiles_", he'd forgotten how terrifying Derek can be when he has reason to.

None of the hunters take a step back. They simply raise their weapons, training them on Derek, but then Cora's on her feet too and they charge, moving faster than the hunters' aim can follow.

He doesn't look away. He should. He should close his eyes, turn his head away, because he knows this will be branded on his memory forever. Knows it'll feature in his nightmares. But he keeps his eyes open even as blood and gore splatters on his face, even as he watches guts and hearts and throats get ripped out, even as a chunk of flesh lands in his lap, he keeps his eyes open and watches until the last hunter hits the ground, throat ripped open and eyes open, staring unseeingly towards Stiles.

Derek drops then, knees slamming against the floor, body swaying. He's already healing but Stiles knows he must be in a lot of pain and completely out of energy. Cora cups the back of his neck, whispers something to him, and then crosses the room, dropping to her knees in front of Stiles.

"Stiles," she says, then when he doesn't respond, barks, "_Stiles_."

He focuses his gaze on her face, blinks once. He's vaguely aware that he might be going into shock. He's not sure. Everything is fuzzy on the edges and he's pretty sure he's about to be sick.

"Stiles," she repeats, fingernails biting into the back of his hand, snapping him back. "Are you okay?"

He laughs wildly because _really_? They're in a house out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the corpses of the hunters who kidnapped and beat them and Derek's pretty much out of commission, and she's asking him if _he's okay_?

She closes her eyes briefly before saying, "I'm gonna get you untied, okay? Just...just do me a favor and try not to freak out. We need to get out of here."

He swallows and nods. Not freak out. He can do that. He's the epitome of not freaking out.

Cora makes quick work of ripping away the ropes binding his wrists and ankles and the thick ones around his middle, releasing him from the chair. She checks his pulse quickly and then grips his chin, tilting his head to look at the wound just underneath his hairline. Apparently satisfied, she releases him and takes a step back, grabbing his forearms to guide him until he's standing.

"You can walk, right?" she asks. "I'm going to need help getting Derek out."

He nods. Sure, he can walk.

He takes one step and then hits the ground, panic slamming into him. It claws its way down his throat, choking him, and he pants for breath, one hand scrabbling at his neck, the other bracing his weight against the floor. He can't fight his way out of it; he's fucking _drowning _in it, his heart crashing painfully in his chest and his head swimming. Black spots dance in front of his eyes.

But Cora's there then, fingers biting into his shoulders, grounding him, as she forces him to meet her gaze.

"_Stiles_!" her tone is sharp, ruthless. "I don't have time to coddle you right now, okay? _We don't have time for this_. We need to get Derek out. We need to leave, _now_, and I need your help, so snap out of it."

He sucks in a deep breath and holds it before exhaling slowly, nodding jerkily. She's right. They need to get out of here and she needs his help with Derek. He can do that. He can help. He has purpose, has something he needs to do right now, and that's enough to break him out of the panic attack. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply until he feels calm enough to get to his feet. Cora hovers by him until she's sure he's not going to freak out again and then they both hurry over to Derek.

"Derek?" Cora says, her tone much softer than it had been when dealing with Stiles. "Der? We're going to get you out of here, okay?"

Derek's eyes are shut but his voice is steady, albeit slightly slurred, as he asks, "Stiles?"

"He's here. He's fine." She assures him. "Come on."

She takes his arm and settles it over her shoulder, then wraps her own arm around his waist. Stiles quickly follows suit on Derek's other side and together they manage to lift him to his feet. Derek half walks, half lets himself get dragged by them towards the door.

Stiles grunts under Derek's weight. He's certain Cora's taking most of his weight since, werewolf, super strength and everything, but still. Derek hasn't gone an ounce of fat on him but he's tall and his muscle mass enough alone makes him pretty freaking heavy. But together they get him out of the room – Stiles manages to stop himself from looking down at the massacre, steadfast in ignoring the squelch of blood between his bare toes and the overpowering smell – and Cora opens the front door.

Stiles blinks against the sunlight and lets his eyes adjust before looking around. It _is _out in the middle of nowhere and it kind of reminds him of the place in _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. He half expects to see Leatherface chasing after them with a chainsaw.

There's nothing around, not even a road, but there's a shed just a few yards from the main house and Cora slides Derek's arm off her shoulder, lowering him to sit on the step with Stiles before taking off at a sprint towards it.

"We're gonna be okay," Stiles mutters, more to himself than to Derek, but he hears him grunt in acknowledgment anyway. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "We're okay."

He hears the rumble of an engine and opens his eyes to see a small SUV heading towards them, Cora behind the wheel. She stops a few feet from them and jumps out, opening the back door. Together, they manoeuvre Derek until he's sprawled across the back seat. Cora closes the door and Stiles climbs into the front passenger seat as she heads round to get into the driver's seat.

They're driving away from the house when Stiles says, "You can hotwire a car?"

She glances at him and nods. "Yeah. I learned a few years back."

A few years ago, she wouldn't have been old enough to drive, let alone be taught how to hotwire a car. She's barely old enough to drive _now_. He still doesn't know much about what happened to her between the fire and being taken by the Alpha pack. But knowing how to hotwire a car? It's not really unexpected from Cora.

"Why am I not surprised?"

There's a pause before she lets out a small chuckle and then they laugh weakly together for a couple of minutes. Silence slips over them again as Cora drives and Stiles shuts his eyes.

* * *

He's confused when Cora stops at the first house they encounter. She explains that they need to clean up or they've got no chance of being able to go to a store or motel, not when they're covered in blood and gore. He feels bad breaking into the house but the owners aren't in and Cora's right.

Cora smashes a back window, climbs in and unlocks the front door, then helps Stiles haul Derek inside. They sit him down on the stairs. He looks a little better, not quite as pale, but still out of it.

"Will he be okay?" Stiles asks.

Cora eyes him for a moment before answering, "Yeah, he's healing. He'll be fine in a couple of hours. I'm more worried about you."

"Me? Why?"

"You're human. You can't heal like us and that's a nasty head wound." She pushes on his shoulders until he's sat next to Derek on the step. "You should be in a hospital."

Stiles snorts. "I don't really think that's an option here."

"You might have concussion," she frowns, leaning in to study the wound. "It's not too deep but it could use a couple of stitches. You'll have a scar but I don't think it'll be noticeable."

"So my pretty face isn't ruined," he jokes weakly. "I bet you're relieved."

She huffs out a small laugh and slips between them to head upstairs. "I'm going to go clean up. You're next, Stilinski."

He nods and she disappears. A few minutes later, he hears a shower running. He closes his eyes, exhausted, but knows he can't let himself sleep. Cora's right, he might have a concussion, and he knows better than to fall asleep now if he does.

He glances to Derek and is relieved to see that his eyes are open and focused on Stiles.

"Thought you were gonna pass out on us for a moment there, sourwolf," he mutters.

Derek's gaze flickers from Stiles' eyes, to the wound on his head, then down to his own lap.

"You're in rough shape," he continues. Because talking? That's something he's always been able to do and he doesn't know if his rambling will help, but he's going to try anyway. "But you'll heal. They were pretty hard on you. But Cora...she's okay." He pauses, studying Derek for a moment. "I get the feeling you taunted them into hurting you more."

Derek doesn't look surprised at Stiles' intuition, simply shrugs. "I can handle it. She can't."

Stiles knows Derek has been through similar before, that he _can _handle it and come out reasonably okay afterwards. Well, if the definition of 'okay' is _fucked up but no added issues have occurred_. He doesn't know if Cora would be able to handle it. He thinks to an extent she would, but he gets that Derek would protect his sister, no matter what.

It's kind of messed up that he'll protect his sister from the hunters, but he won't protect her from the violence of ripping them apart, even lets her join in the bloodbath. He's not sure if it's a werewolf thing or just a Hale thing.

He slams his eyes shut against the images of blood and ripped out throats and takes a deep, steadying breath.

He's not sure if Cora will be okay. Seeing her brother get tortured...it's not something she'll just get over. But he doesn't voice that thought, simply nods at Derek, because he understands, he really does.

"Bet you wish you'd gone with me, huh?" he jokes.

Derek's lips twitch slightly into an approximation of a smile. "Shut up, Stiles." But his eyes are serious as he says, "Thank you."

"What for?" he replies bleakly. "I didn't do anything."

Derek simply shakes his head and repeats, "Thank you."

So Stiles nods, forces a smile and reaches out to awkwardly pat Derek's shoulder. He gets a dark look in response, the familiar wiggle of those eyebrows that is Derek's silent way of saying _I'm going to rip your throat out_, so he withdraws his hand and settles against the staircase banister, closing his eyes.

It kind of feels like progress.

* * *

Cora returns freshly showered and clean, dressed in a floral dress a touch too big for her and her boots. Stiles heads into the bathroom next and stands under the hot spray, letting the water wash away the blood and grime.

He winces when it hits the wound on his head but it feels good to scrub away the dried blood on his face. Then he simply stands, staring down at his feet. Dried blood slowly peels off from his toes under the hot water and he watches as the rust colored water runs down the drain.

That's not his blood. That's the blood he walked through to get to the door. He holds his breath as images of ripped out throats and rivers of blood flash through his mind. He forces them away, exhales sharply and grabs a cloth.

He spends too long under the spray, scrubbing and scrubbing at his skin long after he's completely clean from blood, until his skin is red and raw. It's only when the water runs cold that he finally drops the cloth and presses his forehead against the tiles of the shower wall.

He can't do this. He can't let this overwhelm him. He needs to get back to Beacon Hills and deal with the hunters there, needs to make sure that Scott is safe.

He closes his eyes and he does what he does best: he compartmentalizes.

_We were taken. We were hurt. We managed to get out. We're out, that's all that matters. We need to get back to Beacon Hills. We need to get to Scott and the pack._

Then he steps out of the shower and into the stolen clothes Cora's left out for him. He feels better. Lighter. Determined.

They wait until Derek is healed, washed and dressed in new clothes before they leave. They clean the house before they leave and they ditch the SUV when they can, instead hitchhiking. They're crammed into the back of a Suburban, the driver chatting away happily about the trip she's taking to get to her daughter's wedding, when Stiles finally relaxes, relief crashing through him.

Beacon Hills. This time it isn't just where he needs to go, it's where he _wants _to go. He's going home.

* * *

**the third part will be up soon (there will be 5 parts in total and this is the first story in what will be a series).**

**In regards to the use of chloroform in this chapter, I don't know much about it and did some research, but all the sources I looked at varied. So the time, effects, etc, mentioned in this chapter may not be realistic, in which case, pretend it's as realistic as werewolves ;)**

**I have a tumblr: lokisinmydivision**

**Come talk Teen Wolf with me?**


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles isn't surprised when he has a nightmare that night. Almost every time he's slept since the night they'd taken down the darach, he's had bad dreams; a side effect of the lingering darkness around his heart. Dreams of violent Alpha packs, psychotic geriatrics, being beaten into cold concrete; real memories of being unable to help Erica and Boyd or being powerless to save a mechanic from the kanima mixed with fabrications of running from a burning tree stump or watching his dad or Scott die.

So considering the events of the day, he's expecting the nightmares to be vicious tonight. He stays up as long as he can but his body is beaten and exhausted; he needs to rest and recuperate.

They'd hitchhiked to a small inn and plan on hitchhiking tomorrow until they get to Pine Motel, which is where, hopefully, Derek's Camaro still is. The room they've booked is actually reasonably nice, with a double bed, single bed and small sofa tucked in front of the portable TV; Derek had wordlessly grabbed the double and Cora had slumped on the single, giving Stiles a look that told him if he dared argue, she'd rip his teeth out with her bare hands. She had, however, let him take the sheets off her bed since she didn't need or want them, just the comfortable mattress, so he'd made a nest on the sofa.

As soon as his eyes shut, flashes of blood and torn out throats and the barrel of a gun paint the back of his eyelids. He tosses and turns until sleep finally takes him and he dreams of being tied in that chair, but his mind conjures up images of watching Derek get tortured, unable to help him, but then Scott's there and he's holding the gun to Stiles' head and when he closes his eyes all he sees is the nemeton, dead and burning –

He wakes to darkness, tangled in the sheets and right on the edge of the cramped sofa, drenched in his own sweat. It's quiet and he can practically hear the sound of his heart crashing too fast in his ribcage; he presses his fist to his mouth in an attempt to muffle his gasping breaths. Tears burn his eyes and he squeezes them shut, forces the panic back down his throat. He's not having a panic attack, not here and not now, he _can't_.

When he can breathe without being on the edge of sobs and he's stuffed the panic and fear back deep inside, he swipes a hand over his face, letting his heartbeat calm down. He sits up, wincing when the cheap plastic of the sofa crackles underneath him, too loud in the dark, and exhales slowly.

It's then that he notices the electric blue in the darkness. He blinks, sleep addled enough that he's confused for a moment before realizing the blue is Derek's eyes shining in the darkness and Stiles is looking right at them. His heart jumps in his chest because _fuck_, he'll never get used to that particular werewolf attribute, plus he doesn't like knowing that Derek's watching him.

He looks away and as his eyes adjust, he can just about make out Cora on the single bed, curled into a protective ball. He strains his ears until he can hear her quiet snuffles; his nightmare hadn't disturbed her.

"Sorry," he says, his voice barely even a whisper, but he knows Derek can hear. "I didn't mean to wake you."

There's a long moment of silence and Stiles thinks Derek isn't going to answer, but then his voice, low and rough, reaches his ears. "You didn't."

He looks away from the blue of Derek's eyes, uneasy to know that though that's all he can see of the other man, Derek can see _him_ perfectly fine. He turns his face down and thinks Derek's words through. He'd already been awake when Stiles' nightmares had started, but he'd definitely gone to sleep; Stiles had watched both him and Cora settle into slumber long before he finally gave in, too exhausted to stay up. So something had woken Derek up – a nightmare.

It shouldn't be a surprise that Derek has nightmares too. He's not some robot, he has issues just like everyone else – _God_ knows Derek Hale has issues. He could write an encyclopaedia on issues. The things he has been through – the fire, Laura, Kate, his uncle, all the stuff they've dealt with since and now the torture he'd endured today – it's enough to send someone crazy, but not Derek – he's too stubborn. But it's not so much surprise that Derek has nightmares, more so that he has that vulnerability and that for the first time, Stiles is truly witnessing it.

It should make him uncomfortable, or sympathetic, but all he feels is understanding. But he doesn't say anything. He simply wraps the sheets over him again, cold now he's woken up fully, and lies back down, avoiding looking in Derek's direction. He hates that Derek now knows about his nightmares and the idea of having to talk about them – to his dad, or Morrell, or even Scott or Lydia – makes him feel sick. He knows Derek well enough to know he'd rather rip out his own claws than listen to Stiles try to comfort him.

"Go back to sleep, Stiles," Derek mutters then, as if he can sense where Stiles' thoughts have taken him.

Stiles snorts; like he's going to get anymore sleep tonight after that dream. He drops his arm and hunts around on the sticky carpet until he finds his phone. He'd unplugged the TV from the socket in order to plug in his charger and now he switches his phone on, freshly charged, a series of texts flood his inbox; some from his dad, a couple from Scott, one from Allison, one from Lydia and even one from Isaac. They're all carefully casual, ranging from _hi Stiles, you okay? _to _you didn't call earlier, is something up_? He recalls that he'd promised both his dad and Allison that he'd check in two days ago – the day he was taken – and hadn't.

To his dad, he sends back, _Sorry, didn't mean to worry you. I'm okay. I'm almost home. Love you. _ He keeps it casual, striving not to give away anything that'll concern his dad.

Then he opens a new message to Scott, Allison, Lydia and Isaac and debates for a couple of minutes about what to type. He thumbs in several variants of the same message and erases each one before finally sighing and sending, _Ran into some trouble with hunters. I'm fine. On my way back._

It seems too simple, too casual, _ran into some trouble with hunters_, for what really happened, but he can't bring himself to go into details, not so soon and not over a text message. He'll rehash what happened later – much later, when he can think about it without feeling like he's going to be sick.

It's late and everyone's probably asleep, so he's not surprised that he doesn't get a response from any of them. He gazes at his display picture – an old picture, taken a couple of weeks before Peter chose Scott as his new chew toy, just him and Scott in their lacrosse gear, mud and grass on their faces and grinning goofily into the camera – before opening up a new game of _Bejeweled_. He turns the volume off and doesn't really sink fully into the game until he hears the rustle of sheets and Derek's light snores.

By the time the sun rises, he's completely smashed his old high score.

"Birchwood Motel," Stiles says, gazing at the map he'd pulled up on his phone. "It's about a day and a half's drive."

Derek takes his eyes off the road to look at Stiles, his brows pulling together in confusion. They're in the Camaro – Stiles can't deny the relief he felt on behalf of Derek that it was still in the Pine's car lot; losing a car like this would be _painful_ – and have been on the road for hours, stopping only once for coffee. The windows are rolled down, the breeze pulling at Stiles' hair, and Cora's sprawled on the back seat, fast asleep. Stiles had made a comment about how unsafe it is to forgo a seatbelt and lie down and she'd snapped her teeth at him in return. Derek's driving – like he'd ever allow Stiles to drive his Camaro, he's amazed he's even allowed to _sit _in it – with one hand loose on the wheel, the other arm resting on the door where the window is rolled down.

"What." It's not even a question, more like a demand. Typical Derek.

"The motel I was in," he answers calmly. "The Birchwood. It's where my Jeep is."

Derek shakes his head. "Forget it."

Stiles does look up then, scowling. "Seriously? Dude, it's not even that far. It's hardly a great effort for you and I kind of need it. I'm not gonna hitchhike all the way back to Beacon Hills." He's seen enough teen horror movies to know that's _not _a great plan.

"Don't call me dude," Derek mutters. "And you don't need it. It'll be quicker if we just head straight for Beacon Hills."

Stiles pauses, caught off guard. He swallows before asking, "We?"

Derek looks back to the road, his jaw hard, and finally mutters, "Yes, we. You were right."

Stiles can't help but grin. He can tell how unhappy Derek is with the admission and delights in it. It's rare to hear Derek admit he was wrong, let alone admit that _Stiles_ was right. He knows why Derek's changed his mind, why he agrees that he and Cora should help Scott and the pack, but he doesn't want to think about that, so instead he lets himself be smug that Derek actually admitted it.

"Oh, I was, was I?"

Derek scowls. "Shut up, Stiles."

"No _way_, dude," Stiles laughs.

"_Don't call me dude_."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Your growling doesn't scare me anymore."

_Much_. _It's like seventy percent scary now._

"How about me punching you in the face multiple times?"

Stiles opens his mouth to snark back, but Cora wakes up then, grumbling about the windows being rolled down all the way. Stiles mutters under his breath as he winds up his window halfway, but when he glances at Derek, he can see he's actually _smiling_. It's small and gone faster than Stiles can blink.

But still. It's a smile.

"You're taking up the _whole_ booth."

"Then sit somewhere else."

"Why should – _Stiles_, will you move your damn feet!"

Stiles grins but moves his feet down so he's sitting snugly at the table. Cora smiles sweetly but kicks his ankle under the table as she sits down, crowding him in against the dusty window of the diner. The red plastic cracks beneath her as she shifts to get comfortable. There's a broken spring under Stiles' ass, the table hasn't been cleared from the last customers and he's worried that he might get poisoning from the food, but his stomach has been growling for the past hour, loud enough that Derek had finally pulled off the road with a scowl so they could eat.

Derek appears next to the table and drops a tray of drinks and food off before heading towards the bathroom at the other end of the large diner.

Stiles picks at his chocolate chip pancakes for a moment before glancing at Cora. He's not sure if Derek will be able to hear them considering the loud music the diner's playing combined with the rock music coming from the kitchen, the sound of things frying and cooking, the obnoxious voice of one of the waitresses and the noise of the other customers, but he's got his chance to mention something that's been eating at him for a while.

"You didn't have to get me out of there."

Cora bites into a chilli cheese fry and looks puzzled. "Huh?"

"Back...back at the house, with the hunters," he clarifies, focusing on swirling syrup onto his pancakes rather than looking at her to see her reaction. "You were free. You could've got Derek out. You didn't have to help me."

She's quiet for a moment before muttering, "You think I'd just leave you there?" She doesn't seem concerned that Derek will overhear them so he relaxes just a little.

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"Thanks," she snorts. "I wouldn't. I can see why you think I might, but I'm not some fucker who would just leave you there."

"Okay."

"Besides, you didn't leave us."

He looks up then, surprised. "What?"

"You got out, Stiles. You had a chance, before the hunters came back, to get the hell out of there. But you didn't. Rather than running you tried to get me and Derek out too and because of that you got captured again."

Stiles looks down at his plate. He hadn't even thought of leaving them when he'd realized it was Cora and Derek strung up in that living room. He figures Cora hadn't even thought of leaving him there either.

"Huh," he mutters. "Thanks."

"I still think you're really fucking irritating."

He smiles. "The feeling is very mutual."

She narrows her eyes and kicks his ankle again. He swears under his breath but doesn't give in to the temptation to kick her back harder, instead taking a bite of pancake and chewing with his mouth open just to gross her out.

Derek joins them a few minutes later and wordlessly starts eating. Stiles can't help but be incredulous at the sheer amount of food in front of him. There's got to be enough food for at least three people. He'd wonder if it's a werewolf thing, but Scott has always eaten like a pig and never gained an ounce of fat from it even before he was turned and Cora seems content with her small burger and fries, so maybe it's just a Derek thing.

"Careful," he jokes. "You might eat more calories than you can burn off."

Derek pauses with his fork poised in front of his mouth and looks at him. "What."

"Come on, you're telling me you don't spend, like, seventy five percent of your time working out obsessively?"

Cora snorts beside him, spluttering into her milkshake. Derek slowly lowers his fork to his plate and glares at him.

"Stop talking and start eating," he orders, a threat in his voice. "We need to hit the road again soon."

"Excuse me for having basic human needs like eating regularly," Stiles grumbles, stuffing another bite of pancake into his mouth. "I guess I'll buy some takeaway sandwiches from here so we don't have to stop again."

"You're not eating in my car."

"Dude, _why_?"

Derek looks pointedly at Stiles' shirt. He looks down and, yeah, his shirt is kind of sticky with pancake crumbs and a smear of maple syrup. If he had a car like Derek's, he wouldn't want someone like him eating in it either. But still, he can't help but feel indignant. He shoots Derek a supercilious look that the older man ignores.

They finish their food in silence. Stiles lifts his cup to finish his coffee and Derek looks at him.

"Is coffee really a good idea?"

Stiles knows what he's getting at. He hasn't been sleeping enough. Every time he shuts his eyes he's plagued by nightmares that wake him up after only an hour or so and then he stays awake. He's completely drained. He's not sure if Cora has noticed but Derek definitely has; sometimes he's already up when Stiles wakes from a nightmare, sometimes he wakes up shortly after and looks right at him, and during the day he casts lingering looks at the circles beneath Stiles' eyes. For the most part, Stiles ignores him.

Now, he looks right into Derek's eyes as he drains the last dregs of coffee from his mug.

Derek shakes his head and gets to his feet, throwing some money down on the table. "Let's go."

Stiles wakes slowly, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, still too drowsy. He hadn't intended to fall asleep but his missed hours had caught up with him quickly. He's sprawled across the back seat of the Camaro – Cora had kicked him out of the front when they'd left the diner – and he winces at the pounding in his head as he sits up.

Cora had patched up the wound with some gauze dressing and they figured he could get the stitches he needed back in Beacon Hills, but that didn't stop it from hurting like hell and occasionally bleeding again, making the dressing feel sticky and gross against his head. Both Derek and Cora had healed within hours, of course. _Freaking werewolf super healing_.

His first thought is _water_. His second is that it's a still bright out but a lot cooler, which is a relief. Then he blinks away the sleep in his eyes and looks out of the windshield. He scrambles to lean over the front seat, grinning.

"_Civilization_!" he cries.

Cora growls under her breath, leaning away from where he's just shouted in her ear. She shoots him a dark look.

"Great, it's awake," she drawls. "I was enjoying the silence."

"At least I don't snore in my sleep," he answers cheerfully, enjoying the look of horror on her face. "But seriously, _look_. Trees and houses and shops and _actual_ restaurants! Real, decent food, guys, come on, and _humans_."

"And what were the people we met out there? Martians?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I've just missed actual civilization, okay?

"It hasn't even been that long."

"You're such a grump."

She smiles slowly, drawing her legs up to her chest. "You have that effect on me."

"Get your feet off the seat," Derek grumbles.

She simply offers him a sweet, toothy smile and stubbornly keeps her grubby boots up on the seat.

"Kids these days," Stiles shakes his head. "They have no respect, huh, Derek?"

Her hand suddenly flashes out, grabbing his chin tightly as she turns her head, snapping her teeth viciously.

"Cora," Derek says, not even looking away from the road.

Cora huffs but releases Stiles chin in favor of shoving her hand into his face, pushing his head away. "You're so annoying."

"You have that effect on me," he mocks back.

"Stiles," Derek warns. "Shut up."

Stiles sits back down on the back seat and contemplates putting his feet up just to bug Derek, but as if sensing his thoughts, the older man glares at him in the rearview mirror and Stiles quickly dismisses that idea. Just because he and Derek seem to have reached some kind of unspoken truce, he's still fully aware that Derek might cause him grievous bodily harm if he pisses him off too much.

Derek looks smug and Stiles scowls, though his petulance quickly melts into surprise when Derek flicks on the indicator to turn into the car lot of a small, artsy looking cafe. He sits up straighter in his seat, glancing at Derek in bewilderment.

"Thought you wanted real, decent food?"

He blinks, surprised that Derek's being that considerate, but then his hand twitches towards the indicator to turn it off and he quickly says, "Yes! Yeah, I do. Er, thanks."

Derek simply nods and turns into the car lot, parking smoothly between a Prius and a bright pink Mini. Stiles clambers out of the car and stretches, grinning. Even Cora's mood seems to brighten at the prospect of food that isn't fried and covered in processed cheese and watered down ketchup.

The interior of the cafe is a mix of rustic and artsy, with small tables, overstuffed sofas with patchwork, handsewn pillows and throws, art displayed on the walls, mismatched, colorful mugs and plates and a busking corner where a guy with dirty blond dreadlocks is humming along to the sea shanty he's playing on his guitar. There's the smell of food baking coming from upstairs and near the counter there's a bookshelf with free books to read and homemade clothes and jewellery for sale. It's not the kind of place Stiles would normally go to but the smell of food cooking is delicious so he's smiling as he takes a seat at one of the tables and picks up a menu.

Derek and Cora look completely out of place and slightly uncomfortable as they join him. Stiles looks at the menu and can't help but laugh.

"What?" Derek mutters, sparing an unhappy glance towards the dreadlocks guy.

"Dude, you picked the one cafe that only offers _vegetarian _and vegan options," he explains with a snicker. "As in, no cheeseburgers or bacon."

Cora doesn't look too bothered, even slightly intrigued, but Derek's brow lowers in obvious consternation.

"Let's go somewhere else," he grumbles, pushing his chair back.

"No way, dude," Stiles hooks his ankles around the legs of Derek's chair, trying to pull it back. "I'm starving and this is the first place we've come across that doesn't offer what is essentially processed gristle in bread. We're staying."

Derek kicks his ankle _hard _and Stiles swears, snatching his legs back and leaning under the table to rub the sore spot. Derek had caught him right on the bone where it hurts the most.

"Did you seriously just _kick_ me?" he splutters. "What are you? _Twelve_?"

"I told you not to call me dude."

"We're staying," Cora tells Derek, pulling out a puppy dog eyed look that Stiles doesn't trust for a second.

Derek actually relents and quarter of an hour later, Stiles is tucking into homemade fries, vegetarian burrito and a bottle of organic cola that tastes a little odd but nice. Cora looks delighted with her Greek mezze but Derek scowls down at his vegan nachos as if they've personally offended him, probably wishing he was biting into a double bacon cheeseburger. Stiles can't help but laugh, earning himself a dark look.

"Just eat, sourwolf," Stiles encourages.

Derek shakes his head but forks a large amount into his mouth, grimacing. He chews and swallows before saying, "You should sleep more when we get back on the road."

Stiles looks up, surprised. "I slept for, like, four hours."

"You haven't been sleeping enough."

"Neither have you."

Derek's voice is a low rumble as he says, "_Stiles_."

"_Derek_," he mocks. "Look, my sleeping habits aren't really any of your business."

Derek glares at him and Stiles holds his gaze, refusing to back down. They hold the stare down for almost three minutes before Cora coughs loudly, waving a hand in front of her nose.

"Wow, can anyone else smell the excessive testosterone in here?" she remarks.

Stiles breaks his stare with Derek and shovels another forkful of fries into his mouth. Derek doesn't stop frowning but he finishes half his meal before shoving the plate away in obvious disgust. He doesn't comment when Stiles pulls out his card and pays for the meal; Derek's been paying for their rooms and their meals at various diners and, yeah, he can probably afford it (he's always had a weird abundance of money despite how simply he lives and Stiles finally put it down to insurance money from his family), but Stiles figures it's his turn to pay for once.

Outside, he waits for Cora to get in the back seat and she folds her arms stubbornly.

"I'm older," he points out.

"Beauty before age," she retorts.

"You don't think I'm pretty?"

She makes a disgusted noise but mutters, "Whatever. I'm tired anyway." She climbs into the back and lies down immediately, pillowing her head on her arm.

Stiles climbs into the front and buckles his seatbelt. Derek's silent as he starts the car and pulls back onto the road, joining the steady stream of traffic through the small town. Stiles settles more comfortably in his seat and gets out his phone, pulling up a new text message to Scott.

_I just got Derek to eat vegan nachos_.

The response is almost immediate. _I'm not even gonna ask_. Then a minute later, _you're OK, right?_

Stiles pauses, thinking that over. He's not okay, he can admit that. Especially at night when he hasn't got anything to distract him. But it's not something he can dwell on, not when there are vicious hunters in Beacon Hills and a massacre they've left behind them, out in a rundown house in the middle of nowhere. So he thumbs out, _yeah. We'll talk when I get back_ and sends it.

Scott doesn't reply and Stiles opens a new game of _Bejeweled_. He's determined to beat his high score.

They've been on the road for half an hour and Cora's snoring quietly in the backseat when Stiles' mind goes off on a tangent, no longer focused on the game. He can never really concentrate on anything for long and he's running out of Adderall so he's been skipping some doses in an effort to make his remaining medication last. The coffee doesn't really help with his excessive energy and lack of focus, he can admit that. It's not too bad yet but he can tell Derek and Cora have picked up on the difference, whether it's a slight change in his smell – lacking that chemical scent of Adderall that Scott had explained to him a while ago – or his behaviour.

His knee bounces up and down as he taps his phone against his palm, his brain working furiously. After a few minutes, Derek reaches over and snatches the phone out of his hands without even looking. He settles it on the dashboard.

"What is it?"

Stiles looks at him in surprise. "Huh?"

"I can practically hear you thinking heavily," Derek answers and gives a pointed look at Stiles' still bouncing leg. "And that is really annoying. What is it?"

"Oh," Stiles clears his throat and blurts out what's been playing on his mind. "You said you could handle them."

Derek looks at him then, confusion written across his face. "What?"

"The hunters," Stiles clarifies, noticing the way Derek tenses just slightly. It's been an unspoken truce between him and Derek since they hit the road that they don't talk about what happened. But he forges on anyway. "You and Cora seemed certain that you could handle them and...and you kind of did, let's face it." He swallows and pushes back thoughts of blood and ripped out throats. "So how did they get you two in the first place?"

Derek's hands are tight on the steering wheel and he glares out of the windshield. It's silent for a few minutes and Stiles is certain that he's crossed that line between them, that Derek isn't going to answer, but then the older man exhales sharply and looks at him.

"We thought they'd have guns," he answers. "They did. But they had snipers. We didn't even realize they were out there until they hit us."

"Wolfsbane?" Stiles asks doubtfully. There are no lingering wounds on either of them, so wolfsbane doesn't make sense, but he doesn't know what else could take down a werewolf.

Derek shakes his head. "Tranquilizer."

"Wouldn't your werewolf voodoo just take care of that?"

"It takes a lot of tranquilizer to take down a werewolf."

"How much?" Stiles presses, curious. "Not that I'm planning on knocking out any werewolves anytime soon. It just might be useful for future reference."

"Enough to take down an elephant."

Stiles blinks. "Huh. That's...that's a lot." And it'd be difficult to get hold of that much, let alone utilize it. "I guess I get why most hunters just use wolfsbane."

"That," Derek agrees. "And because it's more painful."

"And it won't heal," Stiles adds.

"Exactly."

"So why did those guys use tranquilizer?"

"Because it was the only way to take us down without getting close," Derek explains. "And wolfsbane would kill us quickly. They wanted us relatively unharmed and coherent when we woke up."

"For...?" he realizes a second later the answer. "Oh. Right." _For the torture_.

Derek nods once.

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, Stiles wondering how someone could be that vicious, could hate werewolves _that _much. He doesn't know what Derek's thinking about but he doesn't look angry or troubled, at least. He looks almost placid.

A quiet, breathless stuttering noise breaks the silence and Stiles twists in his seat to glance back at Cora. She's shivering in her sleep, obviously cold in just her tank top now that it's cooler out. Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls off his zip up sweatshirt. He's not that cold anyway – it's warmer in the front, closer to the heaters – and he leans over the seat to drape the sweatshirt over her.

"So what about you?" Derek asks as Stiles buckles his seatbelt again. He knows the likelihood of Derek crashing is minimal given his werewolf reflexes, but he's also very aware that if they did wrap the car around a tree, Derek and Cora would walk out of it with super handy healing, whereas he'd probably be dead.

"What about me?"

"Back there at the house," Derek clarifies. "The mountain ash breaking, the chains snapping, that was you, wasn't it?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, that was me."

Derek's quiet for a moment before saying, "I've seen magic a couple of times before but it's rare. You didn't have magic before and you're definitely human. So _how_?"

"I know I'm human," he mutters. "And I did have magic before. Deaton mentioned I had the spark, remember?"

"Yeah, you could manipulate mountain ash. I remember. But that wasn't just a spark, Stiles."

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes, repeating what Deaton had told him during their sessions. "Most humans have the ability to manipulate magic, Derek. Some people, like me, have that spark in them for something _more_. Most of the time it goes unnoticed and unused, but sometimes there's a catalyst for it to be awakened, for them to become aware of that spark and use it.

"For me, that catalyst was getting mixed up in all of this werewolf business. It awakened that spark and Deaton made me aware of it. He's been teaching me how to access that part of me and use it. Nothing much and nothing really helpful in the long run, not compared to werewolves and stuff like that. I've done a couple of protective wards and I can manipulate the spark just a little; unlocking doors, that kind of thing."

"That's how you got out of the cell," Derek realizes. "And Mason says you kept him alive somehow. That he felt some kind of energy in his heart. Was that you?"

"I've only managed it on things like rabbits before and not for long. I can't remove pain, not like you guys, or save their life...I can just prolong it. It's hard to do and pretty exhausting." Stiles says. "Back there...that was more than anything I've been able to do before. I'm not even sure what happened. I didn't _mean _to do it. It usually takes me ages to access my spark and use it, but that...that was instant and it came out of nowhere."

"It was powerful," Derek agrees. "But you did have a gun pointed at your head. That guy was two seconds away from blowing your brains out. Maybe your magic reacted to protect you?"

"Maybe," Stiles allows. "But I've been in danger before, multiple times. Nothing happened then."

"You weren't aware of your magic then."

"True," Stiles nods. "I'm not really sure what happened. All I know is that I'm completely fried."

Derek gives him a confused look, encouraging him to continue.

"I tried using my magic earlier and nothing happened," he explains. "Not since that...that explosion of magic or whatever it was. It completely drained me. I can't access my spark anymore. I can't even _feel _it."

Since being made aware of it, he's always been able to feel it. No longer being able to now, he feels cold, empty..._wrong_. He hasn't been letting on just how anxious he feels about it but it feels good to talk about it now, to bounce ideas about what's going on off Derek.

"Maybe you overused it?"

"Maybe. Deaton told me that until I accept that part of me, it'll never be more than a spark. I'll never be able to access it properly or do anything more substantial than opening locks and crap like that."

"But you did more."

Stiles nods. "So I figure either I've accidentally unlocked it or whatever and it's _more_ than a spark now, I just have to wait for it to, like, come back or something after I drained myself...or I fucked up and it's gone completely."

Derek's quiet for a moment, contemplating that. "What are you going to do?"

"I need to talk to Deaton."

"Okay," Derek pauses before asking, "If you have accepted it and it's more, how do you feel about that?"

Stiles swallows. He's been thinking about this a lot. He knows he feels wrong not being able to feel his spark so the idea of it being gone completely unsettles him. But the idea that he's accidentally accepted it? That magic was powerful and completely out of his control. He doesn't want to be _more_, doesn't want to be unable to control himself. He just wants to be Stiles. He wants the magic...and yet he doesn't.

"I don't know," he finally answers, barely above a whisper.

Derek simply nods, like he understands, and they lapse back into silence, Cora's quiet snoring filling the space between them.

That night, Stiles is woken after only a couple of hours by more nightmares. He pants in the darkness, heart crashing against his ribs, and clenches his fists in frustration. He hates this, hates feeling so _weak_. Hates being vulnerable. He clenches his eyes shut, trying to calm down before he wakes either Derek or Cora.

It's now, after nightmares, in the dark and silence, that he feels the lingering darkness around his heart the most, feels it like a gaping cavity in his chest, pulling more of him in with each night of vicious dreams that passes. He feels he's losing more of himself each time and now with that coldness he feels where his spark should be, it's hard to distract himself from it.

When he opens his eyes, there are two dots of electric blue in the darkness. He exhales shakily, ready to apologize for waking Derek up – because it's always Derek that's there in the darkness with him after these nightmares, never Cora – when he hears the creak of the other bed as Derek gets up, leaving Cora to snore softly.

He wonders if Derek's leaving for a walk or even to book a separate room to sleep in since Stiles has woke him up and he feels a sharp spike of both guilt and anger, guilt for interrupting Derek's sleep and anger because he feels so pathetic, that he's so messed up Derek has to sleep elsewhere just for a peaceful night.

But then the bed dips beside him and as his eyes adjust to the dark, he realizes that Derek's sitting next to him on the bed. He's on top of the covers and he crosses his legs, leaning his back against the headboard. His phone's in one hand and he opens up an app, clearly not willing to go back to sleep, but his other hand...his other hand reaches out until it grasps Stiles' wrist firmly but not tightly, thumb pressed over his pulse point.

"What...?"

Derek simply squeezes his wrist once. "Go back to sleep."

Stiles is surprised and more than a little confused, but he obediently closes his eyes and drops his head back onto the pillow. He focuses on the warm, steady weight of Derek's hand on his wrist, the firm grip telling him _he won't let go_, the sensation of his pulse, calm now, underneath Derek's thumb.

Somehow, it's easy to go back to sleep.

This happens multiple times. In a motel where they've stopped for a night or on the road when Stiles falls asleep in the passenger seat, he wakes from cruel nightmares to find Derek's wordlessly wrapped his hand around his wrist, thumb on his pulse, and it's easy to settle then, easier to calm down and go back to sleep. Easy to pretend the nightmares aren't there waiting for him. Sometimes...sometimes he doesn't have the dreams at all. It's like he can feel that hand, even in his sleep, grounding him. _He won't let go_. It's strangely comforting.

They don't talk about it. Derek silently removes his hand and Stiles pretends it never happened. If Cora notices it, she doesn't mention it either. It's another unspoken promise that they don't speak about it, or about the nightmares. It's strange and unfamiliar but it's comforting. It _works_.

Until Derek breaks the unspoken truce.

They're on a back road, a rough track through some woods, and they've pulled off to the side to take a break and stretch their legs. Cora's gone for a walk in the woods and Stiles climbs back into the car, ready for a power nap. There's not much to do on the road other than listen to music, try and pry a conversation out of the two grumpiest werewolves in existence or sleep. He'd tried to encourage them to play I Spy without much success. Derek had ignored him. Cora had said, "I Spy with my little eye an annoying idiot in the back seat". He gave up bugging them after three hours.

Derek climbs back into the driver's seat and reaches over, pulling Stiles earplugs out. He frowns, switching off his music and wrapping the earphones around his phone.

"I take it that's your aggressive way of saying _we need to talk_," he mutters.

Derek's quiet for a few moments, clearly trying to gather his thoughts together into a coherent sentence that's longer than five words or grunts. Stiles understands that, for Derek, this is a difficult task.

"Use your words, Derek."

"It's okay, you know," Derek finally says, expression calm, almost _open_.

"Er, thanks?" Stiles raises his eyebrows. "What's okay, exactly?"

"To...to have PTSD or whatever."

"Huh," Stiles swallows. "Yeah, okay, _no_. Not having this conversation." He reaches for the door handle and gets out of the car.

He reaches into his pocket to get his phone and earplugs. He makes it two steps towards the trees when Derek grabs his arm, reaching with his other hand to pry the phone out of Stiles' palm. He reaches past Stiles to drop it onto the passenger seat and shuts the door. Stiles gapes at him.

"Dude, what...are you _serious_? Is this you, like, aggressively comforting me or something?"

"Stiles," Derek rests his hands on Stiles' shoulders, expression serious. "I don't know what's going on with you. I don't know if it _is _PTSD or whatever. But I _understand_."

Stiles exhales slowly, working to keep his patience. "Yeah, you've been through hell, you understand how that messes someone up. You get it. Nice to know. Good talk, buddy." He pats Derek's upper arm and moves to step past him but he holds him firmly in place. "Are you really going to make me talk about this with you?"

"Will you talk to Scott or your father about it?" Derek challenges.

Stiles grits his teeth and looks away. He doesn't answer; he knows better than to try to lie to a werewolf.

Derek nods. "I thought so. You won't talk to them and they'll coddle you about it. I won't."

"Great. Thanks, Derek. I'm just feeling the love right there."

"_Listen_," Derek stresses. "The nightmares, not sleeping, keeping it all bottled up, it won't work. You need to talk to someone about this. You were taken, Stiles. You were taken and you were hurt. You were almost killed and then you watched me kill them. Of course that's going to affect you. It's _okay_ to not be okay after that."

"Yeah, I'm messed up, I get it," Stiles says flatly.

"That's not what I'm saying," Derek shakes his head. "I'm telling you that you don't need to feel bad or weak. You don't need to bottle it all up. There are people who can help. Don't pretend like everything is okay, that _you're_ okay, when you're not."

"Wow. You just spoke, like, five consecutive sentences."

"_Stiles_."

Stiles' patience runs out and he explodes, shoving Derek back. "And what about _you_, huh? You're the most fucked up person I know!" He watches as Derek's expression darkens, his eyes flashing blue in anger, but he doesn't relent, pent up fury bursting out of him. "What happened to your family, to Laura, Peter, everything that's happened, of course you're messed up. But don't talk to me about _bottling it up_ and needing to talk about it because that's the most hypocritical bullshit right there.

"You let it fester. You're so guilty that after Laura, you didn't stay in a pack for comfort or protection. Instead you went off to be all lonely and guilty. You stayed in the burnt out ruins of your family's home because you hate yourself _that _much you think you don't deserve basic luxuries. You act like you don't care but you _do_, too much. You let all that pain and anger fester, but do you ask for help like a normal person? _No_. You manipulate Scott into spending time with you. You push everyone away because you don't want to be alone and you don't think you deserve to be cared about. You refuse to let anyone help you. And here's the real kicker: you're so lonely that you turned _minors_ into werewolves just so you're not alone anymore -."

"_Enough_!"

He hears Derek's blistering snarl at the same time he feels his clawed hands curl into the collar of his jacket, shoving him back painfully against the Camaro and pinning him there. He sucks in a quick breath, holding it as the anger drains out of him. He stares wide eyed into electric blue; Derek's gone full wolfed out, fangs, claws and all. A quiet rumbling escapes him, a low growl, but he doesn't make a move to hurt Stiles further.

He glares down at him and slowly shifts back, his grip loosening on Stiles' collar. When he's back to normal Derek, eyes their usual color but burning with Stiles' cruel words, he repeats quietly, "Enough."

He releases Stiles completely and turns his back, pacing a few steps away. He's breathing hard and he doesn't look back at him.

Stiles slowly releases the breath he'd been holding and pushes away from the car. Pain shoots up his back as his movement but he barely acknowledges it. He's not angry anymore, not even shocked or scared about what just happened. He just feels completely drained. Empty.

When he speaks, his voice is flat, cold. "The truth is, I don't have time to be messed up, Derek. I don't have time to think about what happened or how I'm feeling. Yeah, I'm not okay. I have nightmares. I feel cold inside and every day the darkness gets worse. But I don't have time for that. Scott and the pack, everyone back in Beacon Hills, our friends? They're dealing with hunters. Nasty ones. And after that, we'll probably be facing something else. And again after that. It's not going to just stop because I'm dealing with some messed up stuff. So I don't have the time to dwell on what's going on with me right now, okay?"

Derek doesn't answer and Stiles doesn't wait for a response. He opens the passenger door, grabs his phone and earplugs, and climbs into the back seat. Cora can take the passenger seat; he's exhausted.

He lies down and pushes his earplugs in, switching on some music. Loud _Ramones_ blasts into his ears.

He opens his eyes briefly when Cora gets into the front. She glances back at him, her brows pulled together in a questioning look; she knows something's happened but she doesn't say anything, simply takes one look at him before shaking her head and curling up, head resting on the window.

Stiles closes his eyes. He doesn't open them when Derek gets into the driver's seat after quarter of an hour, or when the engine starts up. He lets the familiar rhythm of his music and the rumble of the car lull him to sleep.

When he wakes up an hour later after a nightmare, he sits up and rubs blurry eyes. Derek looks at him in the rearview mirror, expression giving nothing away.

Stiles turns away in favor of staring out of the window.

He doesn't sleep that night.

Somehow, he knows the nightmares will be even worse and, besides, his own thoughts keep him up anyway. Without his Adderall, it's harder to force his racing thoughts to settle and he stays awake, staring up at the ceiling.

They're in another motel room, their last stop for the night before they reach Beacon Hills. Derek's on the double bed and Cora's on one of the two single beds, situated between him and Stiles. She must have been exhausted. She hadn't slept in the car – too attuned to Derek and his moods to risk sleeping in case he needed something – and now her snoring is even louder than usual as she sleeps deeply.

He feels guilty. More than guilty. He feels wretched. It burns in his chest and makes him feel sick.

He shouldn't have said those things. Shouldn't have thrown them at Derek like that. He was angry, bottled up feelings exploding in a mess, and Derek had been there as a punching bag. He'd aimed to hurt and _fuck_ had he used the exact right things to shove down Derek's throat. His family, Kate, his guilt and loneliness and self hatred. He'd dug it all up and forced Derek to listen to that...that _poison_.

He was wrong. So wrong.

He doesn't know how to make things right. Doesn't know if he can. That unspoken truce between them, it feels shattered. He feels jarred by it. That empty, drained feeling is gone. He just feels...he feels like a total asshole.

A quiet grunt snaps him out of his thoughts. He sits up, squinting in the darkness. Cora's still snoring so it isn't her. Another sound reaches his ears, this one closer to a sob, and he gets out of bed, walking quietly through the darkness of the room to Derek's bed.

He sees him then, covered in sweat and twisting in the sheets as a nightmare grips him. He grits his teeth against grunts and whimpers. Stiles swallows, heart burning at the sight. He's never seen Derek look vulnerable before. He's seen him weak and on the verge of death, he's seen him troubled and sad, but this is different. This is him at his most human.

Stiles climbs onto the bed beside Derek and sits with his back against the headboard. He reaches out, fingers sliding across the sheets until he touches Derek's wrist. He wraps his hand around it, feels the hot skin beneath his palm, and lets his thumb rest over his pulse point, feeling his thunderous heartbeat. He can feel the ridges of veins and soft hair and its strange how he's the one trying to offer comfort, yet he feels so grounded.

Derek stiffens at first but relaxes after a moment, settling. A few minutes later, the pulse is calm and steady beneath Stiles' thumb. Derek's breathing evens out and deepens as he settles into an easier sleep.

Stiles sits in the dark, staring at the wall on the other side of the room, listening to Cora snore and focusing on the rhythm of Derek's steady pulse beneath his thumb.

He stays that way until dawn.

Cora wakes up first. She doesn't seem to notice anything around her as she jumps out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the door opens and she walks back out, dark hair a mess and sweatpants and T-shirt rumpled. She pauses when she notices Stiles sat on Derek's bed, hand wrapped around his wrist. She narrows her eyes slightly, looking between them.

"I've missed something, haven't I?"

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't know how to go about explaining this. He doesn't even have a clue what is actually going on, he just knows that it works. She shakes her head and grabs her bag, rummaging around for some clothes. She disappears back into the bathroom and Stiles hears the shower running.

Derek wakes up a few minutes later. He tenses without opening his eyes as he becomes aware of Stiles' hand on his wrist. Stiles withdraws it but Derek does open his eyes then, looking right at him. He nods once, taking and accepting what Stiles had been offering: an apology.

They don't speak about it, just wordlessly go about their morning routine, but as they're checking out of the motel, Stiles feels Derek's fingertips press just barely to the middle of his back. There's a bruise there from Derek shoving him against the Camaro and Derek leeches the pain away from it; his own apology.

The final leg of the journey back to Beacon Hills is quiet. Calm.

Stiles wishes it could last.

Being back in Beacon Hills is strange. Stiles can feel that darkness more, like a physical ache behind his ribs. He's cold. It doesn't feel right but at the same time it's a relief to be back, to be _home_. To be here to help Scott and to see his dad again.

Derek stops on Stiles' street and he grabs his duffel bag, but pauses to glance at the older man. He doesn't know what to say. Derek, however, simply rolls his eyes at him and reaches out to cup the back of his neck briefly.

"Go see your father," he tells him. "I'm going to go drop Cora off and see Scott." When Stiles doesn't immediately move, he says, "We'll talk soon."

Stiles nods. "Okay."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Get out."

Stiles laughs but obeys, getting out of the car. He watches Derek pull away from the curb. He knows they'll talk soon. But it still feels strangely like a goodbye. Like they're letting go of that truce or whatever it was between them when they were on the road.

He shakes his head at himself and heads towards his house. That ache is still there but he feels relief and excitement to see his dad again. He's missed him and, right now, with a still tender head wound and weary from everything that's happened, all he wants is to see his father's face.

He doesn't have his keys on him so he bangs his fist on the door. It opens a moment later and the Sheriff stares at him for a moment.

"Dad," his voice cracks and he swallows back the lump in his throat.

His dad sighs, sagging in obvious relief, and reaches out, tugging him into a tight hug. Stiles tucks his head against his dad's shoulder, relaxing into the comfort he needs from his father, breathes in the scent of aftershave and his dad's uniform.

"You worried me, kid," John says quietly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, dad."

His dad pulls back but doesn't release him, simply grips his biceps gently and looks at him. "Are you okay?"

Stiles swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

The lie burns on his tongue and he feels that familiar ache of guilt but he focuses on smiling. His dad studies him for a moment but there's relief on his face, relief that his son is home and safe. Stiles clears his throat and tells the truth this time.

"It's good to be home."

* * *

**part four will be up soon**

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**Come talk Teen Wolf with me?**


	4. Chapter 4

"Stiles, stop wriggling."

"I'm not wriggling. It just feels super weird."

"I numbed it, Stiles."

"I didn't say pain," Stiles points out. "Just weird. _Super _weird. I can feel my own skin tugging. It's gross."

Mrs McCall shakes her head and grips his head gently, encouraging him to keep still so she can finish the stitches.

After another series of relieved hugs, his father making him swear never to do that again and reassurances that he wasn't going to just take off again, his dad had noticed the gauze on his head and had taken him straight to the hospital, ranting the whole way about how worried he'd been and _had Stiles been stupid enough to drive with a head injury_?

Thankfully, Scott's mom had taken one look at Stiles' expression and encouraged John to wait outside while she checked Stiles over. She was a little worried that the cut had been left unattended to but she'd cleaned it and warned him to keep an eye on it after the stitches are removed for any signs of infection.

He blanches at the sensation of his skin being pulled but without pain and carefully keeps his gaze on the floor. He doesn't want to see the stitches being put in. He hates needles and he's squeamish about this kind of stuff. Finally, Mrs McCall steps back and pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, letting him know she's finished.

"You're lucky," she tells him, peeling off her latex gloves. "You only needed three small ones."

"Will it leave a scar?" he asks, probing cautiously at the area.

She knocks his hand away before his fingers hit the stitches and nods. "Just a small one. Barely noticeable. I wouldn't worry."

"Damn," he clucks his tongue. "I was hoping a scar might give me a rugged look. Add an air of mystery, you know?"

"What story are you going to go with? Bar brawl?" she jokes.

"You should see the other guy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says flatly. "Derek Hale ripped his windpipe out."

She stops laughing then and stares at him, trying to work out if he's being serious. When she realizes he is, she pales.

"Scott mentioned you ran into some trouble with hunters," she says quietly.

"Yeah."

"Have you talked about it with anyone?"

"Nope."

She pushes a stray dark curl back from her face and asks, "Do you need to talk to someone about it?"

"Probably."

"Are you going to tell your dad?"

He looks down. "Probably not."

"Stiles."

"He's still processing that things like _werewolves_ exist. I'm not about to drop the bomb that I got kidnapped by a group of psychotic hunters and that the only reason we got out is because Derek and Cora Hale tore them all to pieces with their bare hands. Dad dislikes Derek enough as it is."

"I don't think your dad would resent Derek for saving his son, Stiles."

He doesn't answer and she sighs, sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap, gazing at him with gentle eyes. _Knowing_ eyes.

"If you're not ready to talk to your dad about it, I can arrange for you to speak to someone. A professional."

"No," he shakes his head. "No shrinks."

"It might help."

"Really? It's not like I can talk to them about what's going on with me. I'd have to omit, like, ninety percent of the stuff that's happened. The only professional I can talk to honestly is Ms Morrell and I don't trust her. So thanks, but I'm okay. Just peachy, honestly."

"It's your decision," she acknowledges with a quick nod. "But it might help to talk." She holds up a hand when he goes to speak. "Not now, but when you're ready. It doesn't have to be your dad. You know Scott will listen, or I'm here. Okay?"

"Okay," he agrees. "When I'm ready."

"Good," she smiles. "And do your dad a favor? Don't shut him out. It's not easy to find out about all of this or to be told that your kid is mixed up in all of it. I've been where he is and I know how guilty and confused he must be feeling right now. I can talk to him if you want, but don't just push him away again. If his son's in danger, he should know."

"I know," he admits. "I regret all the lies from before. I should have told him sooner. I'll talk to him, I promise."

She nods and stands, resting her hand on her shoulder briefly as she passes him to open the door. "Off you go, kiddo."

"Thanks, Mrs McCall."

"Just doing my job. And hopefully preventing a few gray hairs for your dad."

He grins at that. "With a son like me? He's lucky he's even still _got_ his hair."

She laughs and waves him off. He finds his dad sitting in the waiting area, arms folded across his chest. He stands when he sees Stiles, slinging an arm over his shoulder as they head towards the exit.

"Just some stitches?" he checks. "It's not infected?"

"Nope," Stiles assures him. "I need to keep an eye on it and take pain relief if it's really sore. She's booked me an appointment to get them taken out."

"Good."

He's silent as they walk towards the police cruiser but Stiles knows his dad is just waiting until they're alone to start his interrogation. He buckles himself into the passenger seat and waits as his dad pulls out of the hospital car lot and onto the main road through town. It's late and there aren't many other cars on the road.

His dad reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled bag of Reese's pieces. He holds it out in offering.

Stiles has a weakness for peanut butter. His ability to eat a whole jar of smooth peanut butter in one sitting has never failed to gross Scott out. And peanut butter candy? It's like his kryptonite. But he knows this trick and he eyes the offered food with suspicion.

"Thought you might be hungry," the Sheriff says innocently.

Stiles sighs but accepts the bag, popping it open and pouring a few pieces into his mouth. "Okay, go ahead," he mutters around his mouthful.

"What?"

"You've been doing this trick since I was ten years old and I blamed Scott for setting fire to the kitchen table," Stiles points out. "It's your way of making me talk. So go ahead, interrogate."

"Why didn't you get that seen to?" his dad launches right into it, shooting a quick frown at the fresh stitches on his son's head. "And why the _hell_ would you drive with a head injury like that? How many times have I lectured you about that?"

"About fifty thousand."

Sadly, it's not an exaggeration. Honestly, it's like his dad doesn't trust him.

"Well?" his dad prompts.

"You're a lousy cop. I mean, your observation skills are _terrible_. Didn't you notice the Jeep wasn't outside when we left the house?"

John's hands tighten on the steering wheel but he keeps his voice calm as he asks, "Where is it then?"

"Some motel. I didn't drive home, dad. Derek gave me a ride home. And I didn't get my head checked out because it wasn't really an option."

"Derek – Derek _Hale_?"

"I was hoping that wouldn't be the part you focus on."

"Derek Hale, the _werewolf_? The former fugitive who I questioned about a murder case?"

"He was exonerated?" Stiles offers.

"I _arrested _him, Stiles. We were chasing after him for weeks believing he was a murderer. Why the hell would you hitchhike with him?"

"I really feel like we should be focusing on the whole exonerated thing."

"He's a _werewolf_."

"That's _species_ist," Stiles informs him. "Besides, so is Scott and you like him."

His dad exhales slowly, clearly willing some deity to give him the patience to deal with his wayward son, then says slowly, "Why didn't Derek take you to a hospital?"

"I told you, it wasn't an option. Not until we got back to Beacon Hills. I needed to see someone, you know, _in the know_ about werewolves, like Mrs McCall. It'd be easier than coming up with a suitable lie." He pauses before adding, "It's easier to get away with stuff when people know your dad's the Sheriff."

His dad looks alarmed at that. "_Stiles_."

"Sorry."

"Werewolves did that to you?" his dad glances at the stitches again. "Wait, did Derek or his sister do it?"

"Derek and Cora saved my life."

His dad suddenly flicks on the indicator and pulls over to the side of the road. He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. Stiles stares at him in confusion as his father rounds the car and opens the passenger door. Realization dawns when he beckons for Stiles to get out.

"Oh my God, dad, seriously?"

"_Now_, Stiles."

He grumbles but unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car. His dad opens the back door and Stiles reluctantly climbs into the back seat, scowling at his father as he shuts the door behind him and heads back to the driver's seat.

It's a familiar method by his dad, making him sit in the back where criminals sit, having to speak to his father through the grate and wait for him to let Stiles out since he can't open the back door from the inside. He hasn't done it since Stiles was thirteen and had 'borrowed' a bottle of scotch from his dad's alcohol cabinet.

"Responsible adults sit in the front without the kiddie locks," his dad had told him. "Boys who misbehave sit in the back there."

It's kind of weird that his dad used to employ it in an effort to prevent Stiles from doing drugs or shoplifting. Now he's employing it because his son's mixed up in werewolf business.

"This again?" Stiles grumbles. "I'm eighteen now, dad. This is so humiliating."

"You go off and do something stupid that requires you being saved by werewolves, you sit in the back."

"Oh my _God_," Stiles drops his head back against the seat. "It wasn't even my fault this time. Not entirely."

"So Derek Hale saved your life," his dad doesn't sound happy about admitting the fact. "Tell me what happened. Do I need to arrest him or shake his hand?"

"Neither," Stiles answers firmly, horrified. "Both are really, really bad options."

John glares at him in the rearview mirror. "Explain from the start."

Stiles gazes at their house as his passes it, his father clearly opting to keep on driving around town as Stiles explains everything that has happened. He's not sure it's a good thing that his dad's operating heavy machinery while Stiles is telling him the story but he doesn't comment on it, knowing his dad's patience is running thin.

Instead, he goes from the start. He glosses over his meeting with Mason and saving the werewolf's life because, in the long run, it isn't really important. He keeps his gaze fixed on his shoes as he speaks, avoiding his father's gaze. It actually feels good to just let it all out and tell someone, even if he does have to get out of his own head to do it without panicking or throwing up. He tells it like the story isn't his own, like he's repeating what someone else has told him, and making it impersonal helps to deal with it. He doesn't go into details, just says he was taken by hunters, he got free, found Cora and Derek, the latter was tortured, he was knocked out, but he managed to get the werewolves free and they killed the hunters before getting him out.

When he finally finishes, the car is silent. He notices that the cruiser's going a little faster than it should be on this particular stretch of road and swallows, knowing his dad's furious – not with him, but with what his son went through. Finally, he risks a look up; his dad's hands are tight on the wheel, his expression shuttered, but Stiles is horrified to realize that his dad looks close to tears.

"The rest of that group of hunters, they're here in Beacon Hills?" he finally asks, voice chillingly flat.

"Yeah," Stiles nods. "Allison's uncle and his wife. They're visiting."

"I'm going to arrest them both."

Stiles sits up straighter, panic crashing through him. "Dad, no!"

"Why the hell not?" his dad snaps. "Their friends kidnapped and hurt my son. They tortured innocent people. I don't want people like that walking free in my town, Stiles."

Stiles is slightly surprised as his dad calling Derek an innocent but doesn't comment on it, instead demands, "On what grounds? You can hardly fill in the paperwork explaining you arrested them for making a living hunting werewolves. Just think about it, dad. You know you can't arrest them."

"Fine," he agrees. "But I'm at least going to talk to them."

"Woah, woah, _no way_," Stiles leans in, practically mashing his face against the grate. "They don't follow the code, dad. They don't have any problem with hurting humans, okay? I'm proof of that."

"_Exactly_."

"No, I mean, yeah, you're the Sheriff, but they're not exactly respectful, law abiding citizens, here. If you put your nose in their business, if they even _suspect_ that you know about werewolves and about them, you're basically painting a massive target on your back, okay? Stay out of it and stay away. They'll leave you alone then."

His dad gives him a knowing look. "And what about you? Are you going to stay out of it and let Allison and the pack handle it?"

Stiles forces a weak smile. "When have you ever known me to stay out of it? Besides, Scott needs me to save his ass. I'm gonna help them, dad."

He expects his father to argue, to tell him that there's no way in hell he's letting Stiles get involved with this, but he simply nods once.

"Okay," he acknowledges. "But you can be damned sure I've got your back, son. You tell me what's going on and if you need my help, you've got it, whether you want me in the firing line or not. Clear?"

Stiles' throat itches and his eyes burn, his chest swelling with love and admiration for his dad, but he swallows back the lump in his throat and croaks, "Crystal. Thanks, dad."

John simply nods again but when he parks back outside the house and lets Stiles out of the cruiser, he pulls him into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly in his son's ear.

"It wasn't your fault. You can't protect me from everything."

"Bull. I'm your dad; that's my job." He pushes him back and settles his hands on Stiles' shoulders, gazing at him. "You're not okay, Stiles."

Stiles exhales shakily. "No, I'm not. But I will be."

His dad squeezes his shoulders once before releasing him. "So what's the plan?" he asks as they head into the house.

"I need to speak to Deaton in the morning about my magic," he answers, rubbing a hand over his face. He's exhausted. "And I need to talk to Scott and the pack about our game plan."

"But right now you need sleep," John tells him firmly.

There's so much he needs to do. He needs to talk to Allison about the hunters in town, needs to speak with Deaton and the pack, hell, he needs to work out whatever the hell is happening with him and Derek, but his dad's right. Fundamentally, what he needs the most right now is to sleep.

So he nods, says goodnight to his dad and heads up the stairs to his bedroom. It's mixed feelings, entering his room; relief to be home and to sleep in his comfortable bed again and the knowledge and dread that this is where the worst of his nightmares have happened. He peels off his clothes and switches off the light, slides right underneath the covers.

Still, despite how exhausted he is, he stays awake for at least another couple of hours, staring up at the ceiling and dreading falling asleep until the moment that he does.

He wakes up two hours later from a vicious nightmare, drenched in sweat and panting against the sensation of drowning in panic. It's strange to wake up without Derek there, hand on his wrist, grounding him. He feels cold. Bereft.

It takes him a while to calm down and when he does, he doesn't go back to sleep. He stays awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the holy hell is going on with his own mind.

"You think it's gone, don't you?"

"I didn't say that, Stiles."

He paces the small examination room of the animal clinic, running his hands through his hair. "You didn't need to. It's all over your face." He waves a hand vaguely towards Deaton's face. "It's your 'I'm gonna remain calm but everything has gone to shit' expression."

"I wasn't aware I had that particular expression."

Stiles stops and squints at him. He never can tell if these comments are due to quiet humor lurking beneath Deaton's placid, almost stoic exterior or if he genuinely means them. Either way, the remark isn't exactly what Stiles considers helpful.

He resumes his pacing. The dog on the examination table whimpers. Deaton's still got one hand on its flank from where he was looking it over and there's a little blood on his lab coat; Stiles figures it's a hit and run and some kind soul brought the dog in and left again. Deaton had barely got out a, "Stiles, I wasn't aware you'd come back. It's good to see you" when Stiles barged in before he'd launched into a rehash of everything that had happened.

"Stiles," Deaton says then. "Are you certain?"

"Er, yeah, I'm pretty certain. Did you miss everything I just said?"

"You were under a lot of duress, Stiles."

"I'm aware of that," he throws his hands up, turning to face the vet. "Like I just said, kidnapping. Getting my ass kicked. Almost getting shot. The whole shebang. _Duress_ was totally a thing that happened."

Deaton remains calm even as Stiles takes his frustration out on him. He gazes at him for a moment before beckoning him closer to the examination table. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me," Deaton repeats. "Try to find your spark."

"I told you, I've already tried, multiple times. It's not happening."

Deaton simply raises an eyebrow, a silent challenge, and Stiles sighs but draws closer to the examination table. The dog's breathing is labored and it trembles. Blood stains its left back flank and Stiles reaches out, gently running a hand from its ear down its back to the tail. A small, pained whine escapes it, followed by a rattling breath.

"Will he make it?" Stiles looks up at the vet.

"Perhaps," he answers. "Can _you_ help?"

Stiles looks down at the wounded animal and swallows with a quick nod. If he has any good reason to use his magic, this is it: helping an innocent animal. If _this_ doesn't draw his spark out, then he doesn't know what will.

He keeps one hand resting lightly on top of the dog's head, thumb stroking soothingly over its ear, and reaches to press his other to its chest. He can feel the heartbeat and the chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths and he closes his eyes, exhaling slowly as he focuses.

His body relaxes and everything else – the room, Deaton, the clinical smell filling his nostrils – it all falls away, leaving just the heartbeat beneath his palm. That feeling of peace and calm rolls over him as his breathing and heart rate slows and there's nothing but the connection of his palm to the dog's chest.

He searches, tries to find that spark to draw it out. Coldness seeps through him, his heartbeat stuttering in reaction and he grits his teeth, trying to push it away and get that calm feeling back. Nothing is happening though. It's not like before, when he struggled to access the spark; now, he can't even _feel _it. It's like a hollow feeling inside of him, spreading through his bones and settling in his heart.

"Stiles," a hand grips his wrist firmly. "Stop."

He lets Deaton pull his palm away from the dog, breaking the contact, and slowly opens his eyes. He's aware that he's breathing hard and sweating, his heartbeat erratic – the exact opposite of what he should feel had that worked. He's exhausted from the attempt and he stumbles back a step, sinking into the chair Deaton quickly pulls away from the wall for him to collapse into.

"How do you feel?" Deaton checks his pulse, kneeling in front of him.

Stiles shakes his head. "The dog?"

Deaton glances back at the examination table. "No change, I'm afraid."

"It didn't work. I-I couldn't find it. The spark or whatever, it _isn't there_." He meets the vet's gaze, searching for answers. "Do you think I, I don't know, _fried_ it or something? Used it all up and now it's gone?"

"Possibly," Deaton admits, looking troubled. "Or it might be stronger and it's simply a matter of time before you can access it. It is hard to say which it is, Stiles."

"So what do I do?"

"Give it time. That's all you can do, I'm afraid. If it comes back, then we go from there. If not..."

Stiles looks up, waiting for him to finish, to come up with a solution, but Deaton simply rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder briefly before rising to his feet.

Stiles drops his head into his hands, sighing. He has the answers he'd pretty much expected; he just has to wait and see if his magic comes back.

Meanwhile, there are hunters in Beacon Hills and he doesn't have the advantage of his spark. _Awesome_.

His phone rings as he's walking back home (being without any kind of car sucks) and he digs it out of his pocket. The caller ID tells him it's Scott and he answers, pressing it to his ear.

"What's up?"

"Hey," Scott greets. "Are you up to anything right now?"

"I just left Deaton's. Why?"

"Can you come over?"

Stiles glances at his watch. He'd planned on catching up on some sleep for a couple of hours before taking some lunch to his dad at the station, but he figures he can skip sleep and see Scott instead. He's looking forward to seeing his best friend again after he was away for so long and they need to talk.

"Sure," he agrees. "I'll be there in fifteen."

He turns in the middle of the sidewalk, heading towards Scott's house. It's not too far a walk and Allison's car is just pulling away from Scott's as he arrives. He lifts his hand in a wave she can't see as she drives away. He can't help but smile though; Scott and Allison hanging out more again can only mean good things, right?

He glances back as he jogs up the steps to the front door, almost tripping and stumbling in surprise when he notices the person sat in a blue Prius parked on the other side of the street, watching him – no, watching the _house_. All he can see from the distance is dark hair and the glint of an earring as it catches the sun through the open window, but they're definitely male.

It's easy to put two and two together about who would be watching Scott's house, especially considering Allison just left it.

He knows he can't play it that he didn't see the dude considering he's drawn enough attention by tripping, so he offers a pleasant smile and a wave, acting the cheerful, friendly neighbour, then turns his back and knocks on Scott's door. He never normally knocks; he and Scott have always had the kind of friendship where they can just walk into one another's houses (or climb through a window) unannounced. But it feels wrong to show that level of familiarity when someone's watching Scott and his house. He doesn't want to give them any advantages.

Scott opens it a moment later and smiles widely when he sees him. Stiles can't help but grin back as his best friend pulls him into a tight hug, clapping him on the back.

"It's good to see you," Scott says.

"You too, buddy," he kicks the door shut and follows Scott into the kitchen. "Isn't this where you say you missed me?"

Scott doesn't smile. His expression is serious as he answers, "I did, dude. We all did. We were worried about you."

Stiles sits at the kitchen table and kicks his feet up onto the chair next to him, shrugging. "I'm okay, Scott."

"No, you're not," Scott shakes his head. "You weren't okay when you left and you're not okay now."

Stiles taps his knuckles on the table, beating out a rhythm as he mutters, "Come on, Scott. Are we really gonna have this conversation _now_?"

"Derek came to speak to me last night."

Stiles looks up then, searching Scott's face for clues on where he's going with this. Scott simply turns away and gets a pan out of the cupboard, setting on the stove.

"Grilled cheese?"

"Er, sure. So, Derek, huh? What did he have to say?"

"He told me about what happened," Scott answers. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I _did_," Stiles defends. "I sent you that text, remember?"

"_Ran into some trouble with hunters_ isn't the same as what really happened. Derek told me everything."

"He did?" Stiles strives for a casual tone as he asks, "Everything?"

"Yeah, the hunters, you escaping, you being an 'annoying little shit' – not my phrasing."

Stiles relaxes, relieved. So Derek didn't tell Scott about the nightmares or about the other stuff, like whatever had been going on between him and Stiles. He's grateful for that, at least.

"It was..." Stiles pauses, trying to find the right words. "It was fucking horrible, yeah. But I'm okay."

"I am so mad at you, dude."

Stiles blinks. "What? At _me_? Why, what did I do?" He frowns as a thought occurs to him. "Are you mad at me for leaving?"

"No, not exactly. I mean, I get why you left and I hope it at least helped. I'm mad at you because you wouldn't let us help."

Stiles looks down. "Scott..."

"You've always been there for me, for all of us, without question, Stiles. But when you needed help, you didn't come to us. You played it off with jokes and acted like you were fine and then you just _left_. I'm mad because if Derek hadn't come to see me, would you have even told me about what happened to you?"

"Yes," Stiles answers quickly. "I _was_ planning to tell you."

"But you would have played it down, missed out details, right? So we wouldn't be worried about you. I mean, I get it, I do, but I'm still pissed off that you wouldn't let us help you."

Stiles knows he has a point. He could have gone to Scott and the others for help. He could have spoken to them. But Scott and Allison have been dealing with the darkness too; they _all_ have their own problems, and pretending that everything's okay is much easier than trying to fix something that honestly? Can't be fixed.

He gets that Scott is mad and he understands why but he can't bring himself to apologize so instead he says, "Your mom thinks I should speak to someone."

Scott slides a plate of grilled cheese in front of him and takes a seat, biting into his own sandwich before asking, "Will you?"

Stiles snorts, tearing a piece of crust off as he mutters, "Well, the only professional I can speak to honestly about werewolves and sacrifices without being carted off to a padded cell is Ms Morrell and considering I trust her about as much as I'd trust a cannibal to give me a blowjob, yeah, that's not happening. So probably not."

"Then talk to us. We're your _friends_, Stiles; we can help you. So just talk to us. Stop pushing us away."

"I'm not pushing you -."

"Then stop pretending like everything's okay when it isn't."

Stiles exhales slowly. "Okay. After we've dealt with the hunters, we'll talk. Deal?"

"Deal," Scott offers his bright, goofy smile, appeased. "So what's going on with you and Derek?"

Stiles chokes on a piece of crust and coughs for a moment. Once he can breathe again, he asks as casually as possible, "Me and Derek? Nothing. Why would you think something's going on?"

Scott looks bewildered. "I just meant that something seems different. He actually sounded concerned about you."

"Well, why wouldn't he? I mean, he never actually hated me. Probably. I think. Or he doesn't hate me anymore, at least. He's concerned about you and Isaac too, not just me."

"Yeah, but...I don't know, man. Something was different."

"Bonding through a traumatic experience?"

"Right," Scott doesn't look convinced.

"Anyway, we should talk about the hunters."

If Scott notices the blatant subject change, he doesn't comment on it. "Actually, I've called everyone together for a meeting about it later."

"A meeting?" Stiles can't help but smirk.

"What?"

"Just sounds all very _Alpha_ of you, calling together a meeting." Not that he's surprised; he knows that with some guidance and time, Scott's going to be a freaking awesome Alpha.

"Whatever," Scott grumbles playfully. "It's at Derek's loft – the best place for everyone to come together and for us not to be interrupted – at six."

Stiles nods and offers a grin. "So. _Halo_?"

Scott's eyes light up as he confirms, "_Halo_."

He leaves Scott's a couple of hours later, planning on grabbing some lunch for his dad and heading for the station. He texts Allison as he sets off on the walk to the town centre.

_So, your uncle. Dark hair, ear piercing, drives a blue Prius?_

Her response comes a couple of minutes later. _Yes. How did you know that?_

_Saw him outside Scott's. He was watching the house_.

Stiles feels more than uneasy about that. Does her uncle already suspect that Scott's a werewolf? Or was he simply staking out the residence of one of Allison's friends? But if that's the reason, it means he doesn't trust Allison, which isn't a good sign.

Allison's reply gives him his answer. _I thought he was following me. Keeping an eye on me_. _Guess I was right._

So Allison's uncle _doesn't_ trust her. _Shit_. That isn't the best news; he'd kind of been relying on that family connection, hoping that Chris or Allison would be able to aid them if her uncle made a move against the pack. But if he doesn't trust them, then that's going to make things a lot more difficult.

_Does he know who is in the pack?_ he texts back. If her uncle has an inkling about who in Beacon Hills is a werewolf, then they need to work on defensive strategies as soon as possible. If he doesn't, they at least have time to group together and come up with a game plan.

_Not exactly_, is Allison's response.

Stiles frowns. _Define 'not exactly'._

Rather than texting him back, Allison calls him instead. He accepts the call as he nears the centre of town.

"Hey," he greets.

"My dad told my uncle that Derek and Cora Hale are werewolves and that they're out of town," she tells him without preamble, her voice hushed. "It was the only way to avoid suspicion. I mean, we live here and it's known in the hunter community that there's been some pretty heavy action in Beacon Hills recently. We couldn't exactly lie and say that we don't know who the werewolves are. They'd know immediately that we're covering for the pack. They need to believe that we're on the same page as them."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Good plan. So just Derek and Cora? And they don't know that they're back in town?"

Allison's quiet for a moment before, "They're back in town?"

"Oh," Stiles clears his throat. "Yeah. They gave me a ride back since I kind of had to ditch my Jeep. I think they're staying to help out."

"You ditched your Jeep?"

"It was more like we didn't have time to go back for it."

"Is this about the text you sent me about running into those hunters again?" she asks.

"Yeah," he exhales slowly. "We should probably talk about that. I'll swing by later?"

"Okay," she agrees. "And to answer your question, yes, or at least, sort of. My dad said that Derek and Cora are out of town and that we took care of the other wolves, so if there are any left, we don't know who they are."

"So, Scott and the pack are covered for now," Stiles says, relieved. "Awesome. But your uncle's going to get suspicious if you hang around Scott or Isaac, right?"

"Probably," she sighs. "I've already told them as much. I'm going to try and keep them out the target for as long as I can."

"Good. Okay. Look, I'm heading to the station for lunch but I'll come by in a couple of hours to talk."

"Right," there's a pause before she asks gently, "Look, Stiles...are you okay?"

He's getting really sick of people asking him that. He feels like he's having _okay_ shoved down his throat.

"Peachy," he answers cheerfully. "I'll see you later, Allison."

He hangs up and pulls up his contacts list. He has both Hale numbers now – Derek listed under _Sourwolf_ and Cora under _Hobgoblin _- and he debates whether to call one of them or if it would be better to text. He needs to give them a heads up about Allison's uncle knowing about them. But he doesn't know where he and Derek stand now and the idea of trying to converse with him while tactfully avoiding talking about it is enough to set his teeth on edge, so he chickens out and ends up texting them both the same message.

_Spoke to Allison. Hunters know you're werewolves but not that you're back in town, so lay low for a while until we come up with a game plan. – Stiles_.

Then he opens a message to just Derek and sends, _And don't think we're not going to talk about you going behind my back to talk to Scott about what happened, jackass._

He doesn't get a response from either of them, but he's not really surprised. He's kind of expecting things to go back to normal now they're back in town anyway; him and Derek only communicating when necessary (read: when trying to defend themselves against the psychopath of the month) and even then mostly just passive aggressive remarks.

He pockets his phone and heads into the diner briefly to pick up two salads and a couple of grape sodas. By the time he gets to the station, he's wondering how he ever survived with just a bicycle and his own two feet before he got his license. He misses being able to drive everywhere. Sure, it was lazy, but he figures spending most of his free time fending off hunters, werewolves and other supernatural bullshit totally counts as a good excuse to _be _lazy whenever he can.

"Stiles!" Deputy Suarez greets with a bright smile. "Your dad mentioned you were back in town. It's good to see you, kiddo."

Stiles has a feeling that he'll be in his thirties and still be deemed 'kiddo' by his dad's colleagues.

"Hi, Deputy Suarez," he lifts the bag in his hand. "Mind if I sneak out back?"

She rolls her eyes at him asking and waves him on through, ruffling his hair as he passes. Again, Stiles is pretty sure he'll be in his thirties and she'll still ruffle his hair whenever she sees him. The cons of living in a small town full of people who have known him since he was just a kid. He grows up, but they never grow out of their habit of coddling him.

He finds his dad in his office, talking to someone on the phone. He waves Stiles in as he finishes up the call. Stiles sets out the salads and soda, grinning at his dad's grimace when he notices the health food, and takes a seat on the other side of the desk, unwrapping his own plastic fork and knife.

"Really, Stiles?" his dad grumbles once he hangs up the phone. "Rabbit food?"

"I'm guessing you didn't stick to the diet plan while I was gone," Stiles points an accusing fork at his father. "So I'm making up for that now."

His dad mutters under his breath but takes an obedient bite. As much as he kicks up a fuss about the 'rabbit food', Stiles knows he does secretly like the healthy food he gets for him, it's just easier to quickly grab curly fries and greasy burgers. And he secretly likes that Stiles cares enough to make sure he eats properly and looks after his heart.

"I'm surprised you got a salad for yourself," John remarks.

"Trust me, I don't think I can ever stomach a burger again. I ate so much of that kind of stuff on the road." Stiles grimaces. "I did manage to get Derek to eat vegan nachos, though."

"Really?" his dad looks surprised. "Derek eats normal food?"

"Well, yeah. What did you think he ate? Werewolf chow and dog biscuits?"

"I just assumed he ate raw rabbit or something."

Stiles chokes on his sip of grape soda, gasping out a chuckle. "Really?"

John points his fork at him. "Don't tell him I said that. Good guy or not, there's something I don't like about Hale."

"Would you feel safer if I told you that he's really just a cuddly puppy inside?"

"Depends," his dad raises his eyebrows. "Would you be telling the truth?"

"Not even slightly."

John shakes his head and picks at his salad. "So what's going on between you and him?"

Stiles pauses, eyeing his dad carefully. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you take off and just happen to bump into him, you saved each other's lives and you spent a significant amount of time together in motels..." John trails off, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Is there something I need to know?"

Stiles feels his cheeks burning and he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Er...no? I mean, I didn't actively seek him out, if that's what you're implying. I really did just bump into them. And, yeah, I mean, we helped each other, but we've done that plenty of times before. It's almost habit, honestly." He notices from his dad's expression that his rambling isn't helping. "Anyway, Cora was in the motels with us, so we weren't alone. There's nothing to know, trust me."

"Are you sure, son?" John asks carefully. "There does seem to be something...different about the way you speak about him."

_Why does everyone keeping thinking something's going on between me and Derek_? Bonding through traumatic experience is totally a thing, after all.

"I guess...I mean, he's been helping with my nightmares. And I've been helping him too, I think?" Stiles shrugs. "It's nothing more than that."

His dad raises his eyebrows but Stiles doesn't want to mention how Derek held his wrist at night. He knows no explanation will help his dad understand that. _He _himself doesn't quite know what to make of it. He just knows that Derek's presence and touch had been grounding and it had helped significantly with the nightmares.

"You don't approve of him," Stiles guesses.

"It's not that exactly," his father hedges. "He's not a bad guy. But try and see it from my perspective, Stiles. He's a werewolf who has the sole responsibility of taking care of his younger sister. He's made a lot of bad choices – and I do understand why, but the point still stands – and he's not got the greatest history. I feel sorry for him but you're still young. He's not the kind of man a father wants his son dating."

Stiles looks down at his food, shoving salad across the box. He does understand what his father is saying, even agrees in some aspects, but he can't help but feel that his dad is still being a little unfair about Derek.

Not that it matters because nothing is going on between him and sourwolf. It's like the moment they stop being hostile towards each other for even a second, everyone assumes something more is going on. It's freaking weird.

"We're not..." Stiles sighs. "I think we're friends now." And, yeah, that fits. They're friends.

"Just friends?"

Stiles nods firmly. "Just friends."

"Alright," his dad cracks a smile then. "Don't look so uneasy, son. You're an adult now; I can't tell you who you can and can't be friends with. If you want to be friends with Derek Hale, then go for it. Just don't let him take advantage."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "What's he going to take advantage of, dad? My charming wit and sparkling personality?"

His dad shakes his head but doesn't answer. They lapse into silence for a few minutes before John says, "So did you speak to Deaton?"

"Yeah," Stiles mutters. "He pretty much said what I was already thinking. Either it's gone for good or it'll come back full force. I just have to wait and see. Because I've always been so good at being patient."

"I'm sure it'll be okay, Stiles," his dad reassures him. "Do you know what's happening with the hunters?"

"I spoke to Scott earlier. He doesn't know much. I also talked to Allison briefly on the phone and I'm going to swing by her house later. As far as we're aware, her uncle and his wife only know that Derek and Cora are werewolves and they think they're still out of town. We're hoping to keep it that way until we can come up with a good enough game plan."

"Alright," his dad nods slowly. "Just keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Yes, sir," he mocks a salute.

"And if you need help?"

"Go straight to you. Do not hesitate, do not try to find another way, do not pass Go and do not collect two hundred." Stiles raises his eyebrows. "I get it, dad. I'll try not to do something stupid."

"Damn straight you will."

By the time he gets to the Argent's at mid afternoon, his eyes are itching with the need to sleep and it's an effort to keep his body moving. But he wants to put off sleep for as long as possible. Without Derek there to keep him anchored, the nightmares are back in full force and he wants to avoid that no matter what.

He rubs a hand across his face as he heads up the porch steps, trying to get rid of the exhaustion before knocking on the front door.

He has a smile fixed on his face ready to greet Chris or Allison – except it's not either of them who opens the door.

Instead, he's looking at a woman in her late thirties, curvy and average looking with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes and lips painted a garish shade of pink that matches the clingy sweater she's wearing. She offers a warm smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, which are cool and assessing as she looks him up and down.

"Hello?" she greets.

"Er, hi. I'm Stiles. Is Allison here?"

"Her dad sent her out for some groceries an hour ago. She should be back any minute. You're welcome to come in and wait."

"No, no, that's fine," _no way am I waiting around with some psychotic hunters_. "I'll just call her later or something."

Her hand closes around his elbow before he can leave and he notices that her nails are kept short and painted the same hideous shade of pink as her lipstick. This chick really likes pink.

"Oh, I insist," her smile takes on a hard edge. "I've just finished some baking and I need a taster."

"Oh, right. Okay. I'll just, er, come in, then. And taste cake. Awesome."

She ignores his spluttering and gestures for him to follow. He shuts the door behind him, tries not to imagine it as some omen of his own doom, and trails behind her as she walks straight through the large house to the kitchen. Stiles just focuses on looking and acting normal and not at all like he's completely aware that he's just walked helplessly into the lion's den, so to speak.

_Play it cool, Stilinski. You don't have scary werewolves as back up here_.

"Sorry, how rude of me," she turns suddenly, holding out her hand. "I'm Annalise, Allison's aunt. Did she say me and her uncle are visiting?"

The skin of her hand is dry and rough and he can feel the calluses. He can't help but associate it with the idea that she's used her hands to kill people – _innocent people_ like him – and it makes him feel sick but he shoves it down, bottles it up, because he can't show his fear, not now and not in front of her. Not without giving away that he knows exactly what she does with her free time.

"I think she mentioned something, yeah," he manages to get out, relieved that his voice is relatively steady.

"So you're a friend of Allison's," Annalise says, heels clicking on the floor as she walks over to the kitchen island. Varieties of cakes, biscuits and muffins line the surface and the scent of something else baking is thick in the air. "I think she's mentioned a Stiles once or twice. Are you friends with Scott?"

He swallows at the mention of his best friend. "I...yeah. I'm friends with Scott."

"Hm," she smiles. "Well, I look forward to meeting him."

Stiles heart is pounding in his chest but he doesn't know what to say to that without raising suspicion, so he bites down on his tongue and forces a smile.

"What about Isaac?"

This is very quickly starting to sound like an interrogation. "Erm, kind of. I mean, we hang out sometimes. Why?"

"I just like hearing about my niece's friends," she shrugs, sliding a muffin towards him. Her gaze is sharp as she asks, "And what about either of the Hales? Are you friends with them?"

Stiles stares down at the muffin, unease prickling at him. Sweat beads on the back of his neck and he wants nothing more to get out of here _now_. He remembers the last time he got on the wrong side of a psychotic Argent and he beat him up in the basement of this very house. He _really _doesn't want a repeat performance.

"Derek and Cora?" he says, working to keep his tone calm and casual, a touch bewildered, even. "I mean, I heard they were back in town a while ago and I've seen them around a couple of times, but I never really hung out with them. Derek's older than me and they both seem kind of weird, you know?"

"Weird how?" she presses.

"Er...I don't know, just all mysterious and shady, you know? I mean, they have the whole tragic past and they tend to keep to themselves, so...yeah. I heard they left town a few months ago anyway."

He feels kind of bad using the Hales like this, but he's thinking fast and coming up with the best things to say to get out of here unharmed. He can speak to Derek later and let him know that he and his sister are definitely in the firing line. Derek might try to tear him apart for exacerbating the suspicion around him and Cora, but hey, he'll at least be giving them a heads up.

"I see," she props her elbow on the kitchen island and cups her chin in her hand, gazing at him. "And you haven't seen them in town at all?"

"Nope," he lies through his teeth.

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly as she assesses him and he works to keep the front up, gazing back calmly. After a moment she turns away, switching on the coffee machine on the counter.

"Coffee?" she offers.

"Um, thanks, but..."

"You'll need something to wash that down with," she nods to the muffin.

"Okay, then. Sure. Thanks."

The longer he's here, the more his panic grows. He doesn't know if she's suspicious or not and that terrifies him. His heart is pounding and he fists his hands, fingernails biting into his palms as he works to try and keep calm, at least until he can get out of here and to a safe place. He can't exactly explain away a panic attack to Annalise.

He picks at the muffin, listening to the sounds of her fixing them both a cup of coffee. She slides a mug towards him and he accepts it, taking a sip straight away in an effort to calm his nerves.

He almost spits it right back out. He manages to swallow out of politeness but he can't contain the grimace that crosses his face. There's a strong, disgusting taste overpowering the coffee and he wrinkles his nose as he tries to place it.

He looks up to see sharp blue eyes on him, assessing his reaction. When he does nothing but force a smile and another quick gulp just to be polite, she relaxes slightly, a soft smile touching her painted lips.

_Ah_. He's willing to bet anything that his coffee's spiked with wolfsbane and she was testing to see if he's a werewolf.

Footsteps draw Stiles' attention to the doorway as a man walks in. He looks to be a few years older than Chris, maybe mid to late forties, with dark hair, gray eyes and an ear piercing.

There's a scar on his chin.

Immediately, Stiles' mind flashes to being tied up in that chair, the woman with the scarred chin leaning over him, and panic compresses his chest. He sucks in a sharp breath, heart beating almost painfully fast, and he's vaguely aware that they're both watching him curiously but he can't control his own reaction.

"Stiles, this is Vince, my husband," Annalise says.

"Right," he manages to croak out. "Allison's uncle."

Vince notices Stiles' gaze on his scar and offers a toothy smile. "Hunting accident," he says it with an undercurrent of amusement, like Stiles doesn't get the inside joke. "Nicked myself with a knife."

"Sorry," Stiles swallows. "Didn't mean to stare."

"It's fine," Vince waves away his apology. He looks at the cup still cradled in Stiles' hands and then at Annalise, who gives a quick nod. He offers another grin. "I'm afraid my wife is terrible at making coffee."

Annalise sniffs, the picture of domestic bliss as she replies, "And he can never make my herbal tea right."

Stiles is certain he's going to be sick. His hands start to tremble and he quickly deposits the mug onto the kitchen island so his shaking hands don't give him away.

"So, you're a friend of my niece's?" Vince asks.

Stiles nods quickly.

"Do you know Derek and Cora Hale?"

It seems he's getting the interrogation from Vince now, too. He opens his mouth to answer but Vince suddenly reaches out, grasping his wrist; his fingers quickly find Stiles' pulse point, ready to detect a lie.

The contact is enough to cause Stiles' fear to spike. He's stuck in a house, alone and defenceless, with two potentially dangerous hunters associated with the ones who kidnapped and almost killed him. He has no back up, no weapon, and not even his magic to help him and _fuck he can't breathe_.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to draw in a breath as he trembles, attempting to push away the panic attack threatening to pull him under. The hand tightens on his wrist and he jerks in response, fully aware of just how much danger he's in right now.

"Stiles?"

His eyes snap open to focus on Chris Argent as he enters the kitchen, glancing between Vince and Annalise before raising his eyebrows at Stiles.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Mr Argent," Stiles rasps, relieved when Vince withdraws his hand and he's free. "I came by to see Allison."

"She's out getting groceries," Chris tells him.

"I know. Your sister in law was just offering me some coffee."

"Right," Chris nods, glancing at the mug on the kitchen island, evidently getting the meaning behind the offer. "You're welcome to go wait in Allison's room."

"Thanks," he says and gets the hell out of the kitchen as quickly as he can.

He barely makes it up the stairs and into Allison's bedroom before the panic hits him full force and he drops to his knees, struggling to breathe. The familiar sensation of drowning in it overwhelms him and he squeezes his eyes shut as tears burn his eyes. Everything – his skin, his lungs, his bones – everything feels too tight, too compressed as fear crashes through him and he feels like he's going to either be sick or pass out or both.

There are hands on his shoulders then and he opens his eyes to look at Allison. She's still in her leather jacket, keys forgotten on the carpet to their right where she must have dropped them and crouched in front of him. She grips his shoulders tightly, gazing at him urgently.

"Stiles?" she asks, concerned. "Stiles, I need you to breathe."

He almost laughs because, _seriously_? Easier said than done. She seems to realize this and presses a hand to his neck, her touch cool, a relief against his hot skin.

"Breathe with me, Stiles," she encourages. "Can you do that?"

She sucks in a deep lungful of air and he tries to copy but it's difficult. She keeps going, though, and keeps up a string of soothing, encouraging words, a comforting presence until finally, _finally_ he can breathe and the panic let's go of him. He slumps slightly until he's sat with his back against her desk and throws an arm over his face, working to regain control of himself.

"Sorry," he mutters. "That was fucking embarrassing."

"Don't," she soothes, touching his elbow gently. "It's fine. I understand. Scott mentioned you have panic attacks but I wasn't really sure how to help."

"It's fine. You were fine. I'm okay."

"Stop saying that," she reprimands softly. "You keep saying you're okay when you're not." When he doesn't say anything further she asks hesitantly, "Should I call someone? Your dad or...Lydia?"

"No, no, I'm fine," he assures her quickly, moving his arm away to look at her. "It's good to see you, Allison."

She cracks a smile then, brown eyes warming. "You too, Stiles." She gets to her feet and offers her hands to help him up. "Welcome home. _Finally_."

"I knew you all missed me desperately. Beacon Hills just isn't the same without me, right?"

"Something like that," she laughs. "Really, though. It's good to see you." Her smile fades, replaced by a sombre look as she says, "I'm sorry about my aunt and uncle. My dad's talking to them now, assuring them that you're not in any way involved. They can be very...suspicious. They go overboard."

Stiles thinks about the other hunters and how her aunt and uncle are associated with those complete psychopaths. "Right. It's fine. I'm okay."

"They triggered a panic attack, Stiles. That's not fine."

"Well, considering what their friends did, are you surprised?"

She looks down, running a hand through her dark hair. "I spoke to Scott. He told me everything. Stiles, I'm so..."

"Don't," he shakes his head. "It's not your fault so don't apologize, okay? Let's just focus on protecting the pack and getting your aunt and uncle out of town as quickly as possible."

"Okay," she nods firmly.

"So," he sits in her desk chair, slouching slightly. "Do you know anything?"

"Not much," she sighs, perching on the end of her bed, facing him. "They haven't told me or my dad much. I don't think they trust us. We don't even know how long they plan on staying for or if they have connections outside of Beacon Hills."

"Are they suspicious about..." Stiles swallows and forces the words out, "About the rest of their group not making contact or whatever?"

She shakes her head. "Not that they've mentioned. But hunters don't get in contact that often when separated. It's safer that way. So it might be a while until they notice that something's not right."

"Good," Stiles exhales. "That's good. They think Derek and Cora have been taken care of by the rest of their group and they don't know about me. That's the best we can hope for right now."

"Yes," Allison agrees. "But they're not telling me or my dad anything and it'd help us with strategies to at least know what they're planning."

"But it's a start," Stiles points out, determined to at least try and remain optimistic. "Look, I should head home. I'll see you at the meeting later?"

She smiles tightly. "If I can get out without them noticing."

He says goodbye and waves quickly to Mr Argent as he leaves the house, eager to get the hell out of there. He can feel someone watching him as he heads down the sidewalk and swallows.

They're definitely suspicious of him.

* * *

**when tweaking this chapter, I decided that to avoid having really lengthy chapters, it'd be better to split this one in half. So the second half will be posted soon and in the end, rather than having five parts to this story altogether, there will be about six.**

**Not much Derek in this chapter I'm afraid but that'll definitely pick up again in the next part.**

**I have a tumblr: lokisinmydivision**

**Come talk Teen Wolf with me?**


	5. Chapter 5

It's weird being back at Derek's loft. He hasn't been here since he, Scott and Isaac scoped it out just after Derek and Cora left, before they realized the Hales had just taken off out of town and weren't in any imminent danger. That was just over a year ago and it's been left alone since.

Scott picks him up from his house and they head into the loft together; the door is wide open but they're the first two to arrive. When they'd last been here, all the furniture (sparse as it was) had been left behind, covered in sheets. One of the Hales has uncovered it all and tidied the place up.

Cora's sprawled on the sofa, munching on chips, and barely looks up when they walk in. Stiles reaches over the back of the sofa and snatches the bag out of her hand, grinning when she almost falls off in her effort to grab it back.

"Asshole," she grumbles.

"Language," he reprimands with a grin, offering Scott a chip. He looks a little surprised but accepts a handful all the same. Scott McCall is not one to ever turn down free food.

"Where's Allison?" Cora asks.

Stiles glances at Scott. His best friend's expression is perfectly schooled for once but Stiles can tell that Allison staying in the same house as Vince and Annalise unsettles him. It bothers Stiles to know that his friend is potentially in danger, so it must be almost killing Scott to know that she's practically trapped with them, especially since he can't easily contact her to check she's okay, not without raising their suspicion even more.

In the last couple of years, Scott and Allison have been pretty on and off. They got back together, they split again 'for the greater good', Allison dated Isaac for a while (which went down like a lead balloon), they broke up, and ever since she and Scott have been in a sort of dance, always on the precipice of getting back together but never quite giving in. It's kind of obvious that they're still ass over elbows for one another though, so Stiles is willing to bet anything that they'll end up together in the end, even if it's in ten years or longer. They're kind of _that _couple.

"We're not sure if she'll make it," Stiles answers. "You know, what with the Creepy McCreepersons keeping an eye on her."

"Vince wouldn't hurt his own niece, though, right?" Scott says.

Stiles and Cora share a look. Considering what they'd witnessed from Vince's friends, he wouldn't put it past him to hurt his own niece if he suspects she's conspiring with werewolves.

"He would," Derek cuts into the conversation, heading down the spiral staircase.

Scott takes a step towards the door, like he's about to go running off to Allison, and Stiles catches the hood of jacket quickly, holding him in place. Scott gives him a sullen look.

"Don't be an idiot, Scotty. Allison is fine. Do you know what might change that? You wolfing out and running over there like some hero to unnecessarily save her from _potential_ danger." He points out. "Besides, this is _Allison_. She can take care of herself."

Scott shakes himself free but nods his agreement. He eyes Derek as he approaches and Stiles can't help but glance at the other man, a nervous feeling settling in his stomach. He's not sure where they stand now. Does he say anything? Ignore him? Both seem like stupid ideas.

Derek doesn't seem to share his problem. He nods at both of them and sits on one of the chairs that either he or Cora has placed in a loose circle, slouching slightly, completely at ease.

"Who else is coming?" he asks.

"The whole pack," Scott answers shortly, belligerent.

Derek works his jaw, agitated, but doesn't bite back. Stiles looks between them, a little confused. He's definitely missed something here and he's willing to bet it's something that happened when Derek went to speak to Scott the other night. But now isn't the time to bring it up; he'll ask Scott about it during the ride home.

For now, he can do his best to keep the tension minimal. "Isaac, Lydia, maybe Allison." He moves to sit down, choosing a seat close to Derek but leaving a space between them for Scott.

Scott ignores that, instead sitting as far from Derek as possible. Cora takes the seat between Stiles and Derek. Scott slouches in his chair, not even trying to hide his glare and Derek matches it, though there's more amusement in the older man's eyes than genuine anger.

Stiles knows that Scott resents Derek. He'd listened to his best friend's rants after Derek and Cora left enough times to know that it isn't something Scott will easily get over. In his eyes, Derek has fucked up so much but they'd just been _getting_ somewhere, had been working together and making a start and then Derek just skipped out of town. Without even telling them. He wasn't there for them, not for Scott coming to terms with being an Alpha, not with all the shit converging on Beacon Hills now the nemeton's back in action, not when they truly needed him. So Stiles knows that Scott's not going to just smile and be friendly, but they really don't need this tension right now.

"You don't think Allison will be able to slip past them?" Cora asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "It's _Allison_, there's not much she can't do these days, but...I don't know. They suspect her. They suspect _me_, so."

"Wait," Scott looks away from Derek then, frowning. "You've seen them?"

All eyes are on him and he shifts slightly, looking away from the concern in Scott's eyes. Yeah, he probably could have mentioned that earlier.

"Er, yeah," he clears his throat. "I went to see Allison earlier. They were there. They're, like, ten different kinds of creepy."

"What happened?"

He shrugs. "Allison wasn't there but Annalise invited me in to wait. She made me a coffee spiked with wolfsbane. There was some interrogation involved. Then Vince came in. Cue further interrogation. Then Chris came in and I got the hell out of dodge."

"You're hiding something," Derek states. "What else?"

"Nothing," he lies, then, knowing they caught the lie, amends, "Nothing important, okay? They're just super intimidating. Vince's eyes...I don't know, there was just something about him that wasn't right. It freaked me out."

"Yeah, he's a hunter," Cora points out, unimpressed.

"No, I mean..." he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Riiiiight," she draws the word out. "So, beyond your paranoia, what happened?"

"Paranoia?" he bites back. "That's cute coming from someone who hasn't even _been _here the last couple of years."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"It means, while you were off on your merry roadtrip, we were dealing with all sorts. So I think I'm allowed a little paranoia."

"Stiles," Scott cuts in, putting a stop to the impending argument. "What can you tell us about them?"

"Not much. Don't you think it's better to ask Allison that question?"

"It's better to have an outsider's perspective."

"I don't know...beyond the fact that they're creepy, Annalise's favorite color appears to be pink and she makes really good muffins? Nothing."

"Helpful," Cora remarks.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly about to strike up a friendly conversation about where they keep their weapons and what their plans for the werewolf population of Beacon Hills are. Maybe _you_'d like to go ask them those questions."

His comment goes ignored as the three werewolves' heads snap up in unison. Scott tilts his head slightly to the left, expression blanking in concentration; the look he gets when he's listening to something Stiles' ears can't pick up on.

"Lydia," he says.

Stiles wonders what it is that Scott picks up on to distinguish her from anyone else; particular breathing pattern? Heartbeat? Way of walking? Or maybe her scent? But then a moment later he hears the steady _click_ of heels and knows that it's definitely Lydia. Allison rarely wears heels but Lydia would probably wear heels in bed if she could get away with it.

She pauses in the doorway, gazing at each of them. Her eyebrow ticks up slightly when she looks at Stiles and she approaches, taking the chair next to him. The familiar mixture of scents – expensive shampoo, deodorant, musky perfume – that make up _Lydia_ washes over Stiles and it's calming.

"Nice to know you're back in town," she remarks.

He offers a sheepish grin. "Sorry. It's good to see you, Lydia."

He's not expecting an 'I miss you' from her but he sees it in her eyes as she adds, "Not even a text while you were gone, too."

"I still don't have your new number."

"And we're going to keep it that way," she winks.

God, he's missed Lydia. Her special brand of concern, the dry wit, her sharp tongue, everything. It's a welcome relief from the pitying looks and lingering hugs from everyone else. He knows they mean well and he appreciates it, but sometimes he just needs Lydia to balance it all out.

She rests a hand on his elbow, gaze searching his, and he offers a quick nod in answer. She doesn't ask if he's okay out loud and she doesn't voice her concern and he likes that. Lydia knows him so well sometimes. Knows how to handle things in the best possible way.

"Well," she purses her lips in her patented mix of a frown and a smile and says, "I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

He laughs and relaxes. She knows he doesn't want the standard 'are you okay', doesn't want the concern shoved down his throat like it has been the last couple of days. Lydia Martin is kind of awesome.

"What's going on?" she asks the whole group then. "I gave up trying to decipher Scott's text message." She glances at the boy in question. "It's called _English_, dear. Use it."

"I was in a rush," he grumbles. "You do this every time."

She smiles sweetly. "And I'll continue doing it until you stop texting me various combinations of vowels instead of words."

"Every time?" Cora cuts in.

Stiles looks between her and Derek. "You've kind of missed a lot."

"Yeah," Derek says. "I'm starting to get that."

"Hunters," Stiles answers Lydia. "And not the mostly harmless brand like the resident Argents. We're talking visitors from the psychotic branch of the family. Me, Derek and Cora, we ran into some trouble with a group of them. We got out, but the leaders of that group, they'd separated from the group before and they're here now – Vince and Annalise Hayes. They know that there are werewolves in Beacon Hills and they're not the kind to be swayed easily. Plus they're not exactly friendly to humans associated with werewolves either, so."

"Right," she considers that for a moment before asking, "Do they know who the wolves are?"

"Not exactly."

One eyebrow raises. "Elaborate."

"They suspect Scott, but we're trying to put them off the scent, so to speak. They know that Derek and Cora are werewolves but I think I've managed to convince them that they're out of town still."

"What about Allison?" Lydia presses. "Is she safe?"

Scott throws a small, appreciative grin Lydia's way that Stiles reflects as he answers, "They're suspicious but I think she's okay for now."

"So we're here to come up with a plan, right?" at Scott's nod she narrows her eyes at Derek and Cora. "So what exactly are they doing here?"

Cora bristles slightly but Derek simply stares Scott down and, yeah, there's definitely something going on there.

"That's a good question," Scott agrees, glaring back at Derek.

"_Because_ they're an advantage. Allison's uncle thinks they're out of town so they don't know we have them as backup. And we could use all the help we can get."

"But they've come back. Why?" she pins Stiles with a hard look. "Tell me what happened."

He does, explaining everything that had happened from Mason to escaping, skimming over some details just as he had with his dad. Scott, Lydia and Derek stare at him as he speaks; the former two listening with varying degrees of concern and horror on their faces, the latter frowning slightly, probably because of the way Stiles is telling the story – detached, like he's repeating it from another source. Pretending he wasn't actually there for it because it's easier to speak that way.

When he's finished, Lydia seems to be in grudging agreement that Derek and Cora are an advantage. Scott still doesn't look happy but he bites back any further remarks.

Lydia receives a text from Allison saying her uncle has taken them out for dinner so she can't escape, which means they're just waiting on Isaac. The loft's silent, Scott sullen, Lydia texting and Stiles sneaking glances at Derek. A couple of times, the older man catches his look but his expression doesn't give anything away and it's beyond frustrating; Stiles just wants some clue as to what's going on between them now.

As soon as Isaac walks in, the air in the loft seems to cool by several degrees. Stiles knew there would be tension but he's not expecting the way Scott also bristles as Isaac sits beside him, looking straight at Derek; the protective instinct of an Alpha coming into play.

Stiles knows that Scott's pissed at Derek for how he acted with Isaac. Stiles gets _why_ Derek did it, figures that he was trying to protect Isaac, but he went about it in totally the wrong way and he can't help but be a little angry on Isaac's behalf too. Because he and Isaac may not be that close, not like Scott is with him, but they've saved one another's lives a couple of times in the last two years and Stiles figures they're at least friends. Besides, they're pack.

Isaac looks away from Derek to nod at Stiles, just a flicker of a smile on his mouth to show that he's happy Stiles is home and okay.

He waits for either Isaac or Derek to say something, half expecting the inevitable, blistering argument between them to happen now, but instead a silence falls over the group. Stiles is struck by the fact that he's nestled between Scott, Isaac and Lydia and Derek and Cora; stuck between the pack and the Hales and it kind of feels that way too since he spent so much time with Derek and Cora on the road. He's kind of lost some of that resentment Scott and the others have. Now he's the link between the two groups and he never saw _that _coming.

Finally, Scott takes a deep breath and quickly goes over the situation again, clearly hoping that someone will interrupt with an idea of how to get rid of the Hayes. No one does. Scott finishes and waits for someone else to speak but they remain silent, considering.

After a while, Cora says, "I think we know what we have to do."

"Please," Lydia replies, tone dry as dust. "Enlighten us."

"They're hunters and they're out to kill. So we get them first."

Stiles wants to brain himself against a wall. He'd been expecting that sort of response but still...he likes to think they're a bit beyond that, at least when they can afford to be. Before, with the other hunters, there wasn't much choice; they had guns, they were going to kill, so Derek and Cora got there first. It was _survival_. But this is different. They have other options.

Hopefully.

"We're not killing them."

Cora actually looks surprised when she looks at him. "What?"

"We're not killing them," he repeats firmly. "Not unless we have to. We don't kill. Or, at least, we try not to."

"You're telling me that with all the stuff you've dealt with, you've never killed any of them?" she asks, incredulous. "Bullshit."

"Only one," he answers. An omega; they couldn't help him and he overpowered Isaac, tried to kill him, so Allison took the shot. "I haven't killed anyone. And it's gonna stay that way."

"So what do we do?" she snaps. "Just sit and wait for them to kill us? _You're _not in the firing line, here. _I _am."

"That's not what I'm saying," Stiles shakes his head, frustrated. "Look, yeah, they're hunters, but they're still people and killing is killing. Besides, they're still Allison's relatives and I think she's lost enough people, don't you?"

She deflates a little at that but looks to her brother for help. "Derek?"

Derek considers for a moment before asking, "So what other option do we have?"

"We try to get them to leave town. If not...I-I don't know. We'll try any method we can think of that doesn't involve murder, okay?"

"Stiles is right," Scott cuts in, voice strong, ensuring no arguments. "_None _of us are killing anyone." He looks right at Derek, lifting his chin slightly in challenge. "What about you?"

And, wow, yeah, definitely making sure Derek knows he's in no way associated with the pack. _Not even trying to be subtle there, Scotty_.

"Stiles is right," Derek agrees.

Stiles snaps his head up in surprise. "I am? I mean, yeah, I _am_, but you agree?"

Derek simply shakes his head, a familiar expression on his face that he gets whenever he thinks dealing with Stiles is like talking to a complete idiot.

"So what's our gameplan?" Stiles asks Scott.

He looks between him, Lydia and Isaac. "What do you guys think?"

"Ambush?" Isaac puts forward.

"No," Scott says immediately, but his voice is quiet, non confrontational. "What would we do with them? Besides, they don't know that we're werewolves. If we confront them, we lose that advantage."

Lydia and Stiles share a look, thinking on the same wavelength. He waves for her to go for it and munches on another chip.

"They haven't really done anything yet," Lydia points out. "It's not much, but there's some kind of line right now and I don't think we should cross it. We wait until _they _do. We prepare ourselves and we wait for them to make the first move and when they do, we go from there."

It's not much of a gameplan in the long run, but it's the best they've got. Maybe the Hayes won't do anything; there is some kind of tense almost-truce there that they haven't really made a move against either the Argents or against anyone they suspect to be a wolf yet. Maybe Chris can convince them to move on. Maybe they'll leave to try and regroup.

Either way, _they're _not making that first move. The pack won't be responsible for that. They'll wait until the Hayes cross the line and then they make their move.

"Yeah," Scott nods. "Agreed."

The decision settles over the pack and it's still weird to feel that, but Stiles shakes off the strange feeling. Scott looks at Derek with a pinched expression.

"You with us on this?"

Derek nods once. He doesn't look too happy with the plan but he's willing to go with it, which makes things a hell of a lot easier. This is going to be difficult enough without fighting Derek and Cora on it too.

Scott relaxes and gets to his feet. "We should head out."

Stiles feels slightly disappointed. He doesn't know what he was expecting – the chance to talk to Derek, maybe? To talk things out? – but he figures he's not going to get it, not tonight. He can't wave Scott away and stay behind; the Alpha needs his support right now and he knows he'd see Stiles staying behind with Derek as some sort of betrayal, even though he'd never mention it. Besides, Scott's his ride home. No way is he walking all the way back across town.

"Scott," Derek says, making the younger man pause. He seems to struggle with words for a moment before settling for saying, "You've become a good pack. Strong."

Scott glances at the members of his pack, looking a little proud despite himself. Derek is right; with the Hales gone and little guidance, plus all the shit flocking to Beacon Hills, the pack became strong and united pretty fast. Scott isn't a perfect Alpha but he's doing a good job considering and the rest of them...well, they're doing their best too and it's actually kind of _working_. So Scott has every reason to be proud of himself and the pack, but he visibly smothers that, instead pinning Derek with a flat look.

"We kind of had to, man," he answers coolly.

The unspoken _since you weren't here_ hangs between them. Derek doesn't respond to it, just stares Scott down and Stiles can feel the tension building, knows that a fight, verbal or otherwise, is going to break out at any moment and they really don't need that right now. Later, if they all survive this, then they can rip chunks off each other all they like, but right now they need to be as united as they can be under the circumstances. So Stiles gives Scott's shoulder a small shove to get him moving towards the door.

Scott huffs but the tension leaves him and he heads for the door. Stiles follows with Lydia and Isaac close behind so Stiles doesn't look back at Derek, even though he kind of really wants to.

Outside, Stiles glances at Lydia. She's looking right at him, a small frown on her face, like she's trying and failing to place something. He frowns back, puzzled, but before he can ask, she shakes her head and her expression smoothes out, and Isaac's saying something then so Stiles doesn't get his chance.

They say goodnight to Isaac and Lydia and watch them go their separate ways – Lydia back home and Isaac to his foster parents' house – before getting into Scott's car. Scott's hands are tight on the steering wheel, his mouth turned down ever so slightly in a frown as he drives. He's silent, which is kind of unusual; he doesn't talk as incessantly as Stiles does sometimes, but still, he usually talks a lot when driving. It's a habit.

After a couple of minutes of this, Stiles turns down the radio and looks at his best friend. "You okay, man?"

There's a beat of silence before Scott asks quietly, "Am I being stupid for resenting him?"

_Ah_, Stiles realizes. Scott's feeling guilty for being so hard on Derek while still feeling resentful towards the older man. He can't help but smile; Scott can be too soft for his own good sometimes.

"No," he answers honestly. "We get why you resent him. But the thing is, and I'm not saying you should be all warm and fuzzy towards him or anything, but just save it, okay? We can't afford it right now. After we've dealt with the Hayes, then go for it. Be as resentful as you like."

"Yeah," Scott sighs. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

He relaxes in his seat, even nods his head slightly along with the radio, and Stiles knows that he's helped a little. Scott never can hang onto anger for too long. It's the same with grudges so Stiles knows that his bitterness towards Derek won't last long.

"So, seriously, what _is _going on with you and Derek?"

Stiles blinks, caught off guard. "Er...what? Nothing is going on between me and Derek. We've been through this, Scott. Only earlier, in fact. A whole conversation with grilled cheeses. I distinctly remember grilled cheese being involved."

Scott ignores his rambling. "It's not nothing, Stiles. You weren't with us tonight, dude, not really. You were with the pack...but you were with _them _too."

Stiles shifts slightly, feeling awkward. He'd noticed that too, the weirdness of being caught in the middle. But he puts it down to the fact that he'd spent time with Derek and Cora before they returned so he's feeling a little nicer towards them than the rest of the pack. He was kind of the mediator between the two groups.

"Yeah," he starts. "But..."

"And," Scott cuts him off. "Derek was acting different around you. I mean, he actually _agreed_ with you. Like, he actually listened to what you were saying."

"He's done that before," Stiles points out, slightly offended.

"Yeah, but this was different. Before, he _had _to. I made him listen to you. Tonight, he chose to listen to you. He considered what you were saying and he agreed with you. He was...I don't know, he's just different with you. Even Cora listened to you. She didn't look happy about it, but she did."

Stiles doesn't look at his best friend as Scott pulls up outside his house. He unbuckles his seatbelt but doesn't move to get out. Scott's right and Stiles hates that he's become so much more observant than he was two years ago. It means he catches things like this, things Stiles doesn't even know how to explain.

"So what are you saying?" he finally asks.

"I'm saying," Scott says slowly. "That when I asked if Derek was with us or not, I don't think he agreed for me."

Stiles doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to say to that; he doesn't even know how to begin to _process_ it. The whole thing is kind of crazy.

"Do you want me to stop hanging out with him?"

"What? No!" Scott looks surprised. "That would make me kind of a dick. I just...I want you to be careful. You're my best friend."

And Stiles knows then that this _is_ Scott his best friend speaking to him, not Scott his Alpha, and he can't help but smile. When it comes to friends, he kind of hit the jackpot with Scott McCall.

"Thanks, man," he reaches out a fist for Scott to bump. "So, we're cool?"

Scott rolls his eyes but bumps fists with him. "Yeah, Stiles, we're cool."

He falls asleep easily that night. He's expecting it considering how little sleep he's had lately and how tired he's been all day and he hopes, stupidly, that he might actually sleep through the night without disturbance.

The dream hits him suddenly; there's no slow realization, no sense of dread, no knowledge of what's creeping towards him. One second he's simply asleep and the next he's looking at what appears to be, at first glance, streaks of pink, red and yellow. It's only when he gets over the initial shock of being dropped suddenly in a vivid dream that he realizes he's in the woods and the pink is Annalise's sweater, the yellow is Isaac's eyes and _oh fuck_ the red is his blood.

He's running then, but it's the sluggish, barely-moving kind of running that happens in dreams, and he's tripping over tree roots that seem to appear from nowhere but he finally, _finally _gets there. He doesn't know what he's going to do, it's just blind panic, but he stops short when he sees the crossbow in her hands and Scott on the ground, bloodied and beaten, instead of Isaac.

"_Stop_," but no sound comes from his mouth and he's reaching then, trying to pry the crossbow from her hands.

He hears the low sound of the arrow releasing from the bow, watches Scott's body go still. He can smell the scent of wood burning and he knows even as he turns that he'll see the nemeton, burning, flames consuming it, but his body's moving against his will, forcing him to face it. When he's awake, he doesn't know what's so terrifying about the image, but right now, watching it burn, his body crumples and he has nothing to fight the fear with.

He doesn't wake up crying, which has happened so many times before, but the back of his eyes burn with the urge to give in and start sobbing. He bites down on his fist to muffle his harsh breathing, to force away the temptation to cry, and lies still, waiting for his heartbeat to slow again and for the lingering fear to fade.

When he thinks he can stand without his shaking legs dropping him onto the floor, he climbs out of bed and grabs a pair of jeans and a shirt strewn haphazardly around his room. He pulls them on with clumsy fingers over his boxers, shoves his feet into his shoes and has enough sense to grab a jacket as he leaves his room.

He can hear his dad snoring from his room and creeps down the stairs. He's done it enough times to sneak out with Scott to know which spots to avoid because they creak and makes it to the front door without so much as a whisper of a sound. He collects the keys for the Sheriff's cruiser from the hook beside the door, feeling a little guilty because he is _not under any circumstances allowed to drive the police cruiser, let alone borrow it_, but the shadows crawling behind his ribs are enough to spur him on.

The cruiser's engine is a quiet purr as he pulls away from the house, waiting until he's down the road before flicking on the headlights, and it takes him a couple of minutes to get used to smooth gear changes as opposed to having to crank the gear stick hard like he'd had to in his Jeep.

He hasn't really made a conscious decision as to where he's going. He just knows he's not going to stay home and let the nightmares take over. Not again.

So he's not really surprised when he finally cuts the engine and stares up at Derek's loft. After all, he knows that, for whatever reason, Derek's presence helps. He figures he should feel nervous, or at least sheepish, to turn up at Derek's at – he glances at the clock on the dash – close to two o'clock in the morning, but the ache in his chest erases any of that.

Derek opens the door a couple of minutes after he knocks, dressed in sweatpants and a wifebeater, all sleep ruffled with his hair sticking up slightly. But he doesn't question Stiles' appearance on his doorstep; he simply gives him a knowing look and steps back, holding the door open for Stiles to enter the loft.

He crosses the threshold but pauses, unsure. What's the protocol here? He doesn't want to be presumptuous and go towards the bed tucked in the farthest corner, but he's not sure simply crashing on Derek's sofa and being in his presence will be enough. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, awkwardness settling in.

But Derek's hand is on his shoulder then and he guides him to the bed. Any other time, Stiles would feel nervous, maybe crack a joke, but this is different. This isn't sexual; it's comfort. It's the help he needs and that he thinks Derek needs too. So he simply peels off his shoes, jeans and jacket and slides under the covers.

He looks up at Derek with tired eyes, wondering if he'll sit on top of the covers like he always did in the motels, but instead he joins Stiles underneath them and lies down, settling his head on the pillow. He reaches for Stiles' wrist and his hand finds its usual position easily, thumb over his pulse, skin warming Stiles', and after a moment Stiles turns so he's on his side, facing Derek with quite a bit of space between them, and searches with his legs until he finds Derek's. He tucks one of Derek's ankles between his own and the older man makes a small hum of approval, already half asleep again.

It feels like taking a breath of air for the first time since waking up from his nightmare. Cool, soothing calm replaces the empty ache behind his ribs and he exhales slowly, relieved. Still, he can't help but ask.

"What is this?"

Derek grunts. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

"But..."

"In the morning," Derek assures him.

"Okay," he agrees.

"Sleep."

Stiles smiles but does just that.

He's not sure what time it is when he wakes. He figures it must be morning but the loft is still dark; at some point, Derek had installed metal blinds over the big windows and they block out the sunlight pretty well.

He can hear Cora snoring from the second level, where he assumes the bathroom and her bedroom must be since the first level, while large, is open plan, so the bedroom, living room and kitchen are all in the same space. Stiles thinks Derek should put up some walls or at least some screens; it isn't exactly private, after all.

Although it _is_ an upgrade from burnt out houses and abandoned subways, Stiles can admit. He's ninety percent sure that the loft doesn't violate any basic health and safety codes, at least.

He feels well rested. He'd slept straight through without any dreams and it feels _good_. Refreshing. He's warm and comfortable; Derek's mattress is amazing and he's content buried underneath the covers. They're in the same position; a lot of space between them, heads on separate pillows, but Derek's hand is still locked around his wrist and he still has Derek's ankle nestled between his own.

He stares at the older man for a moment. He shouldn't be this content. This shouldn't feel so _right_. It unnerves him but at the same time he doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to break the moment of peace.

But Derek stirs then and Stiles sighs, drawing his ankles away from Derek's. He tries to pull his arm free but Derek's grip tightens briefly before he opens his eyes, looking straight at Stiles.

He stares back, mouth going dry. He doesn't know what to say. Somehow, 'good morning' or 'sup' doesn't really seem suitable. He remains silent for a few beats, waiting for Derek to guide him, but he's silent too, just watching Stiles with knowing eyes.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Derek look so relaxed. The fact that it's because Stiles is here with him just adds a whole new layer to the confusion and unease that's replaced Stiles' own content feeling.

Eventually, he decides to just go with the same thing he said before they went to sleep, knowing that Derek will understand what he means.

"What is this?"

"You know the answer to that."

Stiles groans in frustration and Derek smiles slightly, eyes crinkling. His hand is still around Stiles' wrist in a loose grip and Derek starts brushing his thumb over his pulse point. It's absurdly soothing.

When Stiles doesn't offer anything in return, Derek says, "Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What happened. Why you left town."

Stiles exhales slowly and rolls onto his back, pillowing his head on his free arm. He stares up at the ceiling as he answers. Because he _does_ want to tell Derek.

"You know what happened that night?" Stiles asks. He knows Derek will understand what _that night_ means. "With the sacrifices?"

"Scott told me," Derek says. "Before I left. He mentioned something about a darkness."

That explains why Scott is so resentful, more so than Lydia, Allison or Stiles. Isaac's angry because of how Derek treated him but Scott, Scott's bitter because Derek _knew_, he knew what Scott, Stiles and Allison would be facing and he still left.

But Stiles can't find it in him to be angry, not right now, not in the quiet, dim light of the morning and not when he's sharing this..._whatever_ it is with Derek.

"I thought I could handle it," he continues quietly. "And I'd do it again, in a heartbeat. If we hadn't done it, my dad, the others, they'd be dead. So I don't regret it, not even a little bit. But it's so much worse than what I imagined. Deaton didn't prepare us enough. He just said it'd be like a darkness around our hearts for the rest of our lives. But...it's _more _than that.

"It's like this coldness, this empty feeling in my chest, and I can never get rid of it. It's always there and it gets worse all the time. Every day, I feel more of myself falling into that emptiness. It's worse at night. It's – it's like it _knows_, everything I'm scared of, it _knows_."

"The dreams," Derek supplies.

"Yeah. They were manageable at first, but they steadily got worse the more the darkness grew. It hit me harder than it did Scott and Allison. I don't know if it's because they're stronger than me or – or _what_, but..."

"They're not," Derek cuts in. "They're not stronger than you."

Stiles looks at him in surprise but there's nothing except sincerity in Derek's expression. It's so rare to see Derek like this, to see that wall come down, that Stiles doesn't question his words.

"Deaton said that our anchors would help. Isaac helped Allison and Deaton was there for Scott. It made things better for them. The darkness barely effects them anymore. But Lydia...I don't blame her. Not at all. She had problems of her own. She was coming to terms with being a banshee and discovering what that means, what she can do. She was busy. And later...I didn't know how to ask her. How to share this with her. So I kept silent.

"You know about all the stuff that came to Beacon Hills while you were gone. We activated the nemeton and it's like a beacon to all the things that go bump in the night. We dealt with it. But the nightmares were every night and they were, fuck, they were just _horrible_ and I was so tired of fighting. So I did the only thing I thought to do. I left.

"I planned on staying away for a while. I just kept driving because away from Beacon Hills and the nemeton, it was easier. The nightmares weren't as bad and it – it was just easier to manage. But then I found a half dead werewolf and bumped into you guys. So."

Derek's quiet for a while, considering that. His thumb continues running circles over Stiles' pulse point, a soothing rhythm and Stiles is more relaxed now than he was when he first woke up. The only sound is Cora's snoring and the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain on the window and he listens to that as he waits for Derek to respond.

"Cora wanted to leave," he finally says, voice low and steady. "This town, it holds a lot of bad memories for both of us."

Stiles gets that. He knows that for Derek and Cora, Beacon Hills is the physical manifestation of their own version of darkness; it's full of bad memories and demons for them. He thinks that's why he can't find it in him to resent them like Scott and Isaac does.

"After the fire, she just ran. Me and Laura, we thought that all the others had died in the fire. We hadn't even suspected that anyone else got out, that they might have just run. Cora was young when it happened and she gave in to her wolf's instincts and kept running. Eventually, a small pack found her and took her in. She was with them until she heard rumours of a Hale Alpha rising to power in Beacon Hills.

"She left the pack she was with to come back. The Alpha pack got her before she arrived. But after...she'd finally found me and she just wanted to leave, to get out of town." Derek pauses before adding, "And I agreed."

If he's waiting for judgment on that, he's not going to receive anything. After all, Stiles left too; he can't blame or judge Derek for leaving a town that's been nothing but a constant wound for him. Plus, well, he's kind of responsible for his sister now. Stiles gets that.

"We went straight to New York," Derek continues and his voice is smoother now he knows Stiles doesn't resent him for leaving. "After the fire, Laura and I found a large pack there that took us in. I haven't been back, not since...not since finding Laura. But I thought it'd be good to go there now."

"But you didn't stay?" Stiles asks.

"No. I think Cora might have wanted to, but it didn't feel right, not for me. Before, my only tie to that pack was Laura and that was severed. I didn't belong. So we decided to leave and just travel the road until we found the right place to settle. Mason, he was in the New York pack when me and Laura were there but he left years ago, choosing to become an omega. He prefers being alone. I wanted to pay him a visit. You know the rest."

They got attacked by hunters and separated from Mason until Stiles called_. _Yeah, he knows the rest. He's kind of amazed that Derek has spoken so much in such a short amount of time, that Derek is willingly opening up and _talking _to him. Not grunting, not snapping, not forced conversation, but actually sharing with him. It's kind of incredible. And daunting.

"Tell me," he says then. "What this is."

Derek sighs. "Everyone has their anchor. For Scott, it's Allison. For Isaac, it's his pack. Cora, it's family – me."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles frowns, puzzled. "It's a way to control yourselves and the change, right?"

"It's more than that. It...our anchor grounds us. Makes us feel safe, calm. It comforts us. Helps with things like nightmares." He gives Stiles a pointed look then.

"You said your anchor is anger," Stiles says, but his voice is weak. He's starting to suspect what's going on.

"Stiles," Derek sounds amused. "Anger helps me control the change. But do you really think it could make me feel safe and calm? Or comfort me?"

"So..."

"You're my anchor."

_Oh_.

"When?" he asks, because finding out the facts is better than trying to process that revelation right now.

"Before I left. But only a little bit. After you helped us from the hunters, after we got out and on the road, it..."

"Snowballed," Stiles supplies.

Derek nods. "Yeah."

"You're not my anchor," he says then. "Lydia is."

"Yes."

"Then how...?"

"I don't have to be your anchor to be able to help," Derek murmurs. "It's about balance. You need some semblance of balance to ground you and stop the nightmares. For whatever reason, you've found that balance in me." He pauses before adding, "Besides, I know I'd still be here even if you weren't my anchor."

Stiles turns his head, looks him right in the eye, because he knows what Derek's saying. That this isn't about anchors or balance. This is about _them_ and how they feel about each other. How Derek feels about him and...and how he feels about Derek, he's willing to admit that now. It's about this sense of _more_ between them that was given the chance to flourish when they were taken by the hunters.

"I..." he doesn't know what to say. He feels like he should be feeling something more, maybe nerves or excitement, but he's calm, relaxed, even.

He needs to process and compartmentalize. But he can't do that right now. Derek seems to understand because he nods, an understanding look in his eyes, and it's so _strange _to see the older man like this, so completely...uninhibited. Strange and intoxicating.

"Do you think it'll ever stop? Or get better?" Stiles asks. "The darkness and the nightmares?"

"Yes. You just need to find the right thing to balance it out so you can regain control. To ground you. Like I said, it's all about balance. And no," he smiles before Stiles can ask. "I'm not that thing. But you'll find it."

_What if I never find it_? He doesn't voice that thought, just sighs and nods his understanding. Derek hums slightly and the conversation is, apparently, over.

Stiles doesn't know if they're better off for having the conversation or not. He's having a hard time trying to process the fact that he's Derek's anchor. That Derek actually returns his feelings.

But he needs to go home. His dad's going to be worried when he realizes Stiles isn't there and he's going to be furious when he notices that he's taken the cruiser.

Reluctantly, he climbs out of bed and pulls on his jeans, shoes and jacket. Derek stands too and reaches out before Stiles can walk away, keeping space between them but cupping Stiles neck with one hand, leaning in until his nose is pressed to his temple. He breathes in slightly.

"When this is over," he says quietly. "We'll talk about this. About us."

Stiles nods his agreement. When this mess with the hunters is over, then they're free to talk about where they're going to go in terms of their relationship. But right now, he needs to get home, apologize profusely to his dad and work on a better gameplan in regards to getting rid of the Hayes.

So he pulls away and says a quiet, "I'll see you later", and he leaves.

His dad is awake and sat at the kitchen table when he gets back, but he takes one look at Stiles and his expression is understanding. Like he knows that Stiles had to leave, that his nightmares were too much. Like he knows where Stiles went and where he spent the night.

But he doesn't say anything; he simply presses a hand to his son's shoulder in comfort as he passes and makes sure Stiles returns the keys to their place by the front door.

* * *

**I'm currently taking prompts for Teen Wolf and Merlin, so feel free to leave one in my askbox on tumblr, or just come say hey. My url is dontbeobviousmoriarty **


	6. Chapter 6

If the Hayes are going to go after one of them, they all share the unspoken assumption that it'll be Scott. Maybe Isaac. There's a small chance it'll be Allison or her dad.

They're not expecting it to be Lydia they go for first.

And they're _definitely_ not expecting for them to go for her in the local grocery store.

_A grocery store_.

Supernatural confrontations go down in the woods, or creepy, abandoned factories, or graveyards. At night. When there's no one about. Not at two o'clock in the afternoon in the crowded Beacon Hills equivalent of a K-Mart.

So Stiles is just completely unprepared when he sees Annalise Hayes turn the corner onto his aisle. It shouldn't be so out of place; after all, she's a human, she needs necessities like food too. Apparently, that stuff doesn't just magically appear in the homes of werewolves or hunters or even pixies.

He'd once seen Derek in this store. Buying _milk_. That had been strange enough.

But Annalise is walking with purpose, expression set in hard, determined lines. It's not the look of a mid afternoon shopper. Unless they're seriously intense about getting the right yogurt or something. No, this is the look of a hunter. He's seen it often on Allison. It's a lot scarier on Annalise. She's not wearing pink today; instead her theme is black, from the filmy scarf and long military style jacket to the black slacks and boots. But, Stiles notices as she nears him, she _is _wearing the same garishly pink lipstick.

The unexpectedness of the whole situation freezes Stiles in place, one hand curled around the bag of triple chocolate cookies he'd come in for. Holy hell, he's going to get his ass kicked in the middle of a grocery store.

"I only wanted some cookies," he says faintly.

But Annalise doesn't seem to have noticed him, or if she has, she doesn't so much as glance at him, disregarding him in favor of striding towards the fresh produce aisle, the heels of her boots clicking on the floor.

Oh. Maybe she does just want to get some groceries.

But he spots Lydia then, studying the display of chocolates between the fresh produce aisle and the one Stiles is in. He smiles briefly – only Lydia Martin would go shopping in a designer dress and heeled ankle boots – and waits to see if Annalise will walk straight past the strawberry blonde.

She doesn't.

She stops right beside her, invading her space, and given the few inches she has on Lydia, towers over her as she waits for the younger woman to look up at her. Lydia does and Stiles knows she has Annalise pinned as one of the hunters immediately, but her expression shows no recognition, just a cool, almost belligerent smile that Stiles himself was once on the receiving end of a lot during high school; her _I don't know who you are and I don't care, kindly get out of my face_ look.

Annalise's answering smile is unpleasant as she says something. Lydia purses her lips, eyebrows drawing together into an expression that just screams snark and props one hand on her hip.

Stiles knows Lydia can handle herself, but back up is always good and he's not going to just stand back and watch this unfold, not when Lydia's at risk. So he grabs a random bag of cookies and hurries over, plastering a smile on his face as he stops beside the two women.

"Lydia," he greets. "Hi."

She looks at him, expression shifting into a pleasant one as she answers, "Hey, Stiles. Grocery shopping?"

He shakes his head and holds up the bag. "Cookie craving," he looks at Annalise and _fuck it_, if he pulls this off, he's totally going into a career in acting. "Hey, sorry, Mrs Hayes, right? Allison's aunt? I think we met the other day."

There's a long pause and Stiles prays that she goes with it and keeps up the pretence. He's hoping that being in a place as public as this, surrounded by people, might stop her from making any drastic actions. That she'll keep up the facade of being a totally normal person simply introducing herself to Allison's friends.

"Stiles Stilinski," Annalise says his name with a knowing curl to her lips. It's not a friendly expression. "Why am I not surprised to see that you're friends with Lydia Martin?"

_No dice_.

"Because I'm a charming and outgoing person who has no trouble making friends all over town?" he offers pleasantly. "My homeroom teacher said the same thing in my last report."

_Well, it was more along the lines of 'outgoing, spends a lot of time with friends and charming when he's attempting to evade detention', but close enough_.

Annalise steps closer, drops her voice to a quiet level as she says, "And your association with her has nothing to do with the fact that she's a banshee, I'm sure."

_Holy fucking hell_. He manages to hide his shock, but just barely. This is about as unexpected as it can get. How does she know that Lydia's a banshee? He can't imagine either Chris or Allison telling her, not deliberately.

But both he and Lydia keep their expressions calm despite the bomb that's just been dropped on them, though Lydia's slightly tense beside him and he knows she's scared, even as she hides it as flawlessly as ever.

"Well, that's rather harsh," Stiles answers cheerfully. "Considering you've just met her and all."

"Stop pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Who's pretending?"

"You have a very_ interesting_ selection of friends, Stiles," she points out.

"It wasn't really a selection," he smiles. "They just kind of appeared and stuck around. Kind of like lost puppies."

"I find it hard to believe that you don't know all of your friends' deepest secrets," her tone is pointed on the last word and he knows exactly what _secrets_ she means.

"Well, we all have our secrets, don't we?"

_For instance, you like to torture and kill werewolves in your downtime. That's a pretty big secret_.

"I know, Stiles," her expression is cold now after his challenge. "That you know what your friends really are."

"I know that you're a crazy person," he replies. "And I think we're gonna leave now. Good luck with all the...craziness."

She blocks their path when he tries to lead Lydia away and pulls her jacket back slightly, exposing the gun holstered at her waist for only Stiles and Lydia to see. Lydia's hand grips Stiles' forearm, nails biting into his skin, but he keeps calm despite the fear that's crashing through him, instead forcing a blasé smile and meeting Annalise's eyes directly.

"Go ahead," he shrugs, then jerks his chin in the direction of where a woman is stood by the bread display. "But for the record? That's Deputy Suarez. I doubt she'd react well to you shooting two eighteen year olds in the middle of the store. But, hey, it's your jail time."

Annalise glances over at the police officer in question, eyeing her dubiously for a moment, but the reminder that they're in a public place seems to do the trick. She drops her jacket, hiding the weapon again, and takes a step back, allowing them to pass.

Stiles bites back a cocky remark and follows Lydia towards the checkouts, but Annalise's voice makes him pause.

"You're not as great an actor as you think, you know."

He doesn't answer, just lets Lydia pull him away. They ditch the items they were going to purchase and just leave the store instead. Lydia's scowling but she waits until they're safely in her car – Stiles had been walking back from Scott's when he stopped by to satisfy his sugar craving – before speaking.

"What the hell was _that_?"

"Er," he blinks, surprised by the hardness to her tone. "Us actually managing to avoid getting killed? Or at least maimed, possibly mangled?"

"I could have handled it."

"I know," he assures her. "But that doesn't mean I'm not going to help when I can." She smacks the back of his head. "Ow, _ow_! What the hell was that for?"

"Because you've put yourself even further in her firing line, Stiles!" she snaps, exasperated. "She wouldn't have done anything to me, not in the middle of a busy supermarket. But now she's focused on you too because you got involved."

Stiles realizes then that Lydia's not really angry at him; her vitriol stems from worry for him. He can't help but smile, warmed by her concern.

"She was focused on me anyway, Lyds," he says softly.

She deflates at that, slumping back in the driver's seat. "How did she find out?" she asks quietly. "About what I am?"

"I don't know," Stiles answers, troubled. "The only thing I can think of is that someone told them. But I can't see Allison or her dad telling them and there's no way Scott or Isaac would. Banshees are listed in the Argent's bestiary...but they haven't named you in it, so how would they connect it to you?"

It's not like Lydia Martin _screams_ 'banshee'. Other than the episode back in high school when her abilities first started and everyone thought she was having a psychotic breakdown, they've managed to keep anything unusual about her concealed pretty damn well. It's impossible that the Hayes could notice anything, not in the short time they've been in town.

So, then, _how_?

"What about..." Lydia trails off, hesitant.

"What?"

"I mean, what about the Hales?" she says in a hurry, eyeing him cautiously. "They know about me and...well, they're not loyal, not like Allison and the others."

"They wouldn't," his response is firm and immediate. "They wouldn't sell you out." When she looks like his trust in them isn't convincing enough, he points out the obvious, "Why would they come forward and make their presence back in town known to hunters just to sell you out?"

She nods then. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm just trying to work out how they could know."

Stiles thumps his skull against his headrest, sighing. He has no idea but it's obvious they underestimated Annalise and Vince. They knew they'd be dangerous and violent and, like most hunters, probably pretty intelligent, too. Cunning. But not to this extent. This is above and beyond the norm...there's _no possible way_ they could just stumble upon the fact that Lydia's a banshee.

So what in the holy hell happened?

Beside him, Lydia reaches into her purse and draws out a tube of lipstick. She flips the mirror and touches up her lipstick, pressing her lips together to spread it. Stiles shakes his head slightly but he's used to Lydia and her quirks by now.

"We need to talk to the others," he tells her. "Give them a heads up."

"You can if you want," she waves a hand dismissively. "I've got a date I need to get ready for."

Since Ethan and, therefore, Aiden left town shortly after the final showdown with Jennifer and Deucalion, Lydia's been on and off dating, but nothing long term. Stiles knows that her heart will probably always be with Jackson, no matter how hard she keeps her front up about it.

"Could you give me a ride to Scott's?"

She purses her lips. "Are you paying for the gas?" at his dismayed expression, she rolls her eyes. "I'm kidding, Stiles. I'm not going to kick you out of my car." She tilts her head and smirks. "Yet."

He grins back as she starts the engine.

In hindsight, walking home from Scott's on his own when it's dark out probably isn't one of his better ideas.

But after discussing the incident at the supermarket with Scott, his best friend had been busy calling Isaac and trying to find a safe way to contact Allison and her dad to tell them about it and discuss a way to keep Lydia under adequate protection. So Stiles decided to leave them in peace and head home; he needs to talk to his dad anyway about the development between him and Derek. He's done keeping his dad in the dark and he wants to give him a heads up before anything happens between them.

He's just turned onto the path that cuts between a vacant factory and the fire station when he realizes someone is following him.

He's at the mouth of the alley, about to step out onto the sidewalk when hands grab him and then he's spinning for half a second before his back hits the brick wall of the factory hard enough to make him wince.

He's released almost immediately and once he gets his bearings, he meets Vince Hayes' gaze. The older man shoves his hands into the pockets of his tan leather jacket, staring hard at Stiles. There's a bulge beneath the hem of his jacket that's obviously a gun.

Stiles' breath freezes in his lungs. He's not in a busy supermarket in the middle of the afternoon now; they're in an alley at night with no one about and he's got nothing as defence against Vince. He figures it's unlikely he'll be able to talk his way out of this. Vince's expression is ugly, pure violence in his gray eyes. Stiles glances towards the mouth of the alley, wondering if he'd be quick enough to make it.

"Don't run," Vince's smile is all teeth. It doesn't make him look any less dangerous. "You'd be dead before you make a step." When Stiles opens his mouth to speak, he shakes his head sharply. "Don't bother with the lies. I know you're involved with the pack and you know who I am. So let's skip that unnecessary bit, shall we?"

His voice is smooth, pleasant on the surface, like he's trying to sell something. All slick and practised, charming even. It contrasts with the dangerous look in his eyes and the way his scar stretches when he offers a toothy smile at Stiles.

"I'm not here to kill you, Stiles."

_Oh. Okay, that's definitely a plus_.

"Not yet, at least."

_Damn_.

"You're on my radar but you're not a priority," he looks Stiles over, cool and assessing, and Stiles knows he's summing him up as human, weak, not going to be a threat. It'd be a lot more offensive if he didn't know it's probably a solid assessment right now. "I'm here to talk."

"Yeah?" Stiles manages to keep his voice steady. "The gun says otherwise."

"Precaution," is Vince's smooth response. "I wouldn't worry about that. Like I said, you're not a priority at the moment. I'm simply giving you a warning: associating yourself with them will not end well for you."

"Coming from the guy with a gun."

Vince's mouth twists slightly. "They're killers."

"_Coming from the guy with a gun_."

"They have it coming to them."

Stiles almost laughs. "You go around killing people. Innocent people and anyone associated with them just because you _think_ they're monsters. Come on, you can't justify that. You and your friends, you're just killers who act like they're doing the world a favor."

Stiles sees the exact moment Vince's temper flares; his expression shuts down into a cold, hard look, his gray eyes almost metallic as he grabs the collar of Stiles' jacket in his fists and shoves him back against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

Stiles wheezes, staring wide eyed at the older man as he struggles for breath, belatedly reaching up to try and pry the hunter's hands away. But Vince has a lot more muscle on him and keeps Stiles pinned, feet barely touching the ground, with just brute force. His face is flushed with anger and close to Stiles as he sneers.

"And how would _you _know about my friends?"

_Oh. Shit_.

Stiles swallows. "I, er, I..."

"Because my wife and I, we've been worried about them. Because they're our friends, Annalise's brother was with that group, so you understand why we may be concerned when we receive nothing but cold radio silence from them, especially as last we heard they were going after the _Hales_."

Stiles keeps his mouth shut, staring back at the older man.

"So you were out there too, with them," Vince summarises. "What the fuck did you do to them? Huh?"

_Oh hell, I'm going to die_. Stiles can't talk his way out of this. Vince knows that the rest of the group is dead and that he was involved. No matter how much he runs his mouth, the cold, relentless _anger_ in Vince's face tells him that he's going to kill him, right here, right now in this alley.

The blare of sirens interrupts them and a second later, the glare of headlights shine into the alley, illuminating them. Stiles squints against the bright light, relief crashing through him; there's no way Vince will harm him, not in front of a police witness.

Vince turns his head slightly towards the cruiser parked at the mouth of the alley but doesn't release his tight grip on Stiles. They listen to the sound of the car door opening and closing and watch as someone rounds the car until they're illuminated by the cruiser's headlights.

"Is there a problem here?" Sheriff Stilinski asks, voice hard.

Vince slowly releases Stiles and steps back. "Not at all, officer."

John looks between them before raising his eyebrows at his son. Stiles gives him a quick nod back to say he's okay and his dad settles a harsh look on Vince.

"Vince Hayes, right?" he says.

"That's right."

"I know what you're doing in town," John doesn't hesitate to tell him, folding his arms. "About your job."

"Excuse me?" Vince straightens slightly and offers a slick smile. "I'm a car salesman."

"And I'm the Sheriff of this town," John replies coolly. "But we all have our role on the side, don't we?"

Vince narrows his eyes, clearly getting the message; Sheriff Stilinski knows and he's not going to let it go down in his town.

"Is there a problem, Sheriff?"

"Not at all," John's own smile is hard. "But lay a finger on my son again and there definitely will be. Understood?"

Vince glances between the Sheriff and Stiles, realization dawning that Stiles is his son. After a moment, he gives a sharp nod.

"Understood," he bites out.

"Good," John's grin is sharp. "Have a pleasant evening, Mr Hayes."

He beckons for Stiles and he quickly follows his father to the cruiser, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt. His dad waits until Vince has turned and walked away before pulling away from the alley.

"How did you...?"

"Mrs Smeethe," John points to the house opposite the alley. "She noticed two people loitering and gave a call to the station."

_Huh. Go Mrs Smeethe. I owe her my life_.

"That was..." Stiles turns to his father, stunned. "That was kind of awesome, dad."

His dad snorts.

"No, really," Stiles insists. "That was, like, some serious Bruce Willis shit right there."

John shakes his head but there's a small, pleased smile on his face at his son's obvious pride. "So, what the hell was that?"

"He knows that I'm involved with the pack and he now knows that the rest of his group are, well, you know," he shrugs. "He didn't take it well. Oh, and they're gunning for Lyds."

"Lydia?" John looks at him in surprise. "They figured out what she is?"

"Somehow, yeah. Annalise cornered Lydia in the supermarket this afternoon. Did the whole shady shebang."

"Lydia's at home now?" at his son's nod, he says, "I'll radio in to the station, get them to dispatch a couple of deputies to watch Lydia's house tonight."

"Can you do that?" Stiles asks, surprised. "Without reason?"

"Nope. That's why Lydia Martin is going to file a report about a stalker sending her threatening letters."

Stiles stares at his father in awe. "Oh my God."

"I'm not completely useless, kid."

"Yeah, no, definitely not. Consider me definitely on board the John Stilinski is Awesome fan club."

Stiles wishes he'd told his dad a _lot _sooner rather than letting concern about him being in danger override the knowledge that his dad could help. Having the town's Sheriff on board has been helpful in the past but he'd still done his best to keep his dad away from it all, only telling him the bare minimal and actively keeping his dad away from confrontations. He's regretting that now; turns out that his dad is pretty damn useful. Not to mention awesome.

John radios in to the station and Stiles texts Lydia to give her a heads up about the deputies that'll be stationed outside her house. Her grateful response makes him smile.

"I don't want you walking around town on your own," John tells him. "Even during the day."

"Okay," Stiles agrees easily.

"No arguments?"

"There's something seriously off with that guy. Annalise is creepy enough but Vince is on a totally different level. Trust me, I'm not gonna put myself at risk with him."

"Good," his dad pauses before saying, "I've got a late night shift at the station and I'll probably be in even later now I've got to process the paperwork for dispatching those deputies. I don't want you in the house alone."

"Right," Stiles blinks. He hadn't even thought of that. "Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I could stay with Scott?"

"Well," John clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "I thought perhaps Hale?"

_What?_

"What?"

"I can't say that I'm happy about it, but I saw you the other night, Stiles. After coming back from spending the night at his, you looked a hell of a lot better than you've looked in _months_."

"Dad," Stiles swallows. "Me and Derek...when this is all over, we kind of agreed that we'd discuss our relationship. I mean, it might not happen at all, but I guess I'm trying to give you a heads up? So if you're uncomfortable with it you can raise that red flag now?"

"You're an adult, Stiles. It's your choice and I can't tell you either way. I am uncomfortable with it and you know my reasons for that. But I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if he helps you as much as he seems to, then I can get over it. I just want to see you happy, son."

There's a lump in Stiles' throat that he resolutely ignores. "Thanks, dad."

"And for the record," John says then, "None of those reasons is that Derek is a man. I have no problem with that, you know that, right?"

"I know," Stiles smiles.

"I love you, kid."

"I love you too, dad. And, yeah, Derek's is fine."

He's expecting Derek or Cora to be on the other side of the loft door when it opens.

So he ends up gaping in surprise when he realizes he's looking at _Peter_ instead.

Peter smiles slowly at the look on Stiles' face and steps aside, allowing him to enter the loft. He hesitates on the threshold, not exactly thrilled to be alone in the same space as creepy Peter Hale for any amount of time, but he's not gonna risk walking back across town in the dark on his own either, not with Vince on the warpath, so he takes the few steps into the loft and turns to face the older man.

"Derek and Cora?"

"Out," Peter answers, which, yeah, Stiles kind of got that. At the younger man's supercilious expression he adds, "They're getting pizza."

_So they'll be back soon_. Stiles relaxes a little at that. He wants to limit time spent with Peter as much as possible. The guy gives him the creeps.

"So," he says, glancing towards the sofa though he doesn't make a move to sit down. "It's been a while, huh?"

They saw Peter once, shortly after the two younger Hales left town, and not since then. They figured he'd left town too, an idea that didn't exactly unsettle them. The less time spent worrying about Peter Hale lurking nearby, the better.

"I was out of town for a while," Peter answers vaguely. "I would have thought you'd be happy by my absence."

"Maybe," Stiles agrees with a shrug. "But we also think its better when we can keep an eye on you."

Peter tilts his head in acknowledgement, not looking too perturbed by the implication. Since he doesn't seem inclined to do anything except stand there, watching Stiles with that smug look that makes his skin crawl, Stiles does sit then, toeing off his shoes and kicking his feet up onto the sofa.

"So," he clears his throat. "Now Derek and Cora are back, you figured you'd come back too?"

If so, interesting move, considering neither of them trust Peter and Stiles is pretty sure they don't particularly like him either, given the whole killing their older sister thing.

When it comes to family, the Hales are pretty much the definition of _dysfunctional_.

Still, maybe Peter's trying to make amends, to fix what little family they have left. Or he's just up to more evil shit. Stiles is willing to bet that it's the latter; he trusts Peter about as much as he'd trust Jackson's teeth near his throat. Read: _not at all_.

Peter doesn't answer and yeah, okay, Stiles isn't exactly doing freaking cartwheels in excitement to talk to him either, but the silence is even creepier and it's easier to fill it with conversation than to wonder about Peter's motives.

"What have you been up to?" he asks. "Evil plotting? Sinister misdemeanours? Maybe steal some candy from a kid?"

Peter remains silent and Stiles huffs, looking at the older man. He's leaning against the wall, watching Stiles with his arms folded. He's got that supercilious, knowing look, the one with the smug, amused half smile, and it kind of makes Stiles want to throw something at him. He doesn't, considering doing so would likely end with him on the wrong end of werewolf teeth, but the temptation is strong.

"I see my nephew's taken a liking to you."

Once Stiles gets past how Peter worded that – _seriously_? _Taken a liking_? – he realizes with horror exactly _what_ he's just said.

"Er, yeah, no. Not talking about that with you."

The thought makes his skin crawl. Discussing him and Derek with the latter's weird, wackjob uncle? Yeah, not happening.

"I'm his uncle."

"Yep. The uncle who killed his older sister, manipulated him and went on a massive rampage." Stiles gives him a sarcastic thumbs up. "Amazing job."

Peter's still got that annoying half smile going on, but there's a hard edge to it now. He doesn't respond to Stiles insult, but that's fine because the younger man is far from done now he's opened that particular can of worms.

"No, seriously, you're a fucking nutjob," he continues. "The whole Alpha equivalent of a power bender? Not awesome. And none of us trust that you're all submissive or whatever after you pulled that whole zombie thing. Just a heads up."

Okay, so insulting a werewolf in order to deflect questions about him and Derek, probably not the greatest idea he's ever had, but he's on a roll.

Unfortunately, before he can really launch into it, Peter pushes away from the wall and starts towards the spiral stairs. Stiles eyes him for a moment before deciding that it's definitely a good thing that Peter's leaving him somewhat alone (no weird questions about him and Derek and the less time spent with Peter, the better) and spreading out on the sofa, relaxing.

"Stiles," Peter says from halfway up the stairs. "Just remember what I told you about Paige."

Stiles tilts his head back on the arm of the sofa to watch the werewolf disappear upstairs. He doesn't know if Peter is genuinely concerned about his nephew or if there's more sinister, selfish motives than that. He knows what he's getting at by mentioning Paige, but while he believes what happened, he's fully aware that the story came from _Peter's _mouth and he doesn't know if he can trust every word of it.

Besides, he likes to think that Derek has learnt a lot since he was fifteen, like the fact that turning someone into a werewolf isn't the perfect solution. Plus Stiles is definitely over any desire he ever had to be a werewolf. He wouldn't ask to be turned just to appease Derek or anyone else anyway; he has more sense than that. So Peter's words are pretty pointless, especially considering _nothing _has happened yet. Maybe when this mess with the Hayes is over, things might move forward between Stiles and Derek, but right now, not so much.

He needs to talk to Derek about whether or not Peter is going to be a problem though. He's, like, ninety percent sure that Peter's got some sinister motives going on.

He's wondering if he'd be capable of stealing a slice of pizza from werewolves when tiredness catches up with him and he falls asleep sprawled on the sofa.

_Burning. Always burning._

He sits in front of the burning nemeton, watching the fire dance around the stump, completely devouring it. All the strength is gone from his legs, the desperation to run is subdued and any power he had has drained from him; he can do nothing but sit and watch, terror biting at him, the horrible image of the nemeton burning.

He can feel the power being torn from the nemeton as the fire claims it and it takes his breath away, makes his own heart feel like it's burning to ash, but he doesn't move. When the flames lick away from the nemeton and the dried leaves around it catch, causing the fire to inch closer and closer to his prone body, Stiles still doesn't move. He'll burn with it if he has to. He doesn't blink, even when his eyes sting with the need to do so. He doesn't look away, even when the fire's so bright it burns his retinas and the heat is so overbearing he feels like his eyeballs are melting out of their sockets.

He's terrified. It quakes inside of him, bites its way down his throat and curls up behind his ribs. He doesn't understand why what he's looking at is so frightening, he just knows one thing:

The nemeton is burning. And he'll burn with it.

"Stiles, wake up!"

He wakes to hands on his shoulders and a loud voice in his ear, but neither quite register before panic slams into him and he has enough awareness to roll over onto his front, curling in a tight ball and hiding his face in his arms. He doesn't want Derek or Cora or, fuck, definitely not Peter to see him like this.

The scrunched up position doesn't exactly help with his breathing as he gasps for air, choking on it as tears stream down his face. He thinks he's going to be sick and he's aware that his whole frame is shaking, his heart crashing in his chest as fear floods through him, stealing his breath and making his vision swim.

He's vaguely aware of a hand on the back of his neck, thumb stroking his hairline soothingly, and voices nearby but he feels detached and dizzy as he fights for control over the panic attack. He digs his fingers into the material of the sofa in an effort to ground himself and snap out of it.

He feels a weight on his shoulder blade and focuses on that, slowly becoming aware enough to realize that Cora's kneeled by the arm of the sofa, muttering soothing nonsense to him, and Derek's hand is on the back of his neck and he's resting his forehead against Stiles' shoulder blade.

"Derek?" he chokes out

He gives Stiles' neck a small, gentle squeeze. "It's okay, Stiles. Just breathe."

He barks out a laugh at that, sounding on the edge of hysteria, but Derek simply breathes against his shoulder. Stiles tries to copy the slow, deep movement, closing his eyes and focusing on the weight of his hand on his neck and his head on his shoulder until his breathing starts to calm again.

As the panic slowly fades, leaving him with a lightheaded, tingly feeling, he reluctantly rolls out of the ball he'd contorted himself into, stretching out on the sofa and looking at Derek with wary eyes.

"You're okay," Cora says softly. "It's okay, Stiles."

Stiles closes his eyes and they wait for a few minutes as he calms down, Cora making gentle, encouraging noises now and then. Derek doesn't move his hand from the back of his neck and it's a comforting weight.

Eventually, he opens his eyes and says, voice hoarse, "Well. That was embarrassing."

Cora looks like she's about to roll her eyes but stops herself, instead murmuring, "Don't be stupid. It's okay."

Derek's eyes are slightly wide still but then his expression turns assessing. "You have those often?"

"They might be a pretty regular thing, yeah," Stiles rasps. "I – they started after my mom died and they came back with my dad and the darach...and then with the darkness and the nightmares, I..."

Derek cuts him off with another gentle squeeze. "What were you dreaming about?"

Stiles doesn't want to think about the dream, about the pure terror he felt, so he shakes his head and mutters something about "burning". Derek and Cora share a look but don't pursue that line of conversation.

"Peter?" Stiles asks after a moment.

"We came back to find him gone and you asleep on the sofa," Derek answers. "Did he speak to you?"

"A little. Mostly it was just creepy staring."

"He's good at that," Cora agrees.

They lapse into silence for a moment before Stiles says, "I'm okay. Really. You can go back to bed."

Cora glances between them but at Derek's nod of encouragement, she reaches out to squeeze Stiles' hand once before getting to her feet. She disappears upstairs.

"I didn't know you'd be here tonight," Derek says after a moment.

Stiles looks at him. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"Good. Because if you did I'd tell you to fuck off because this sofa is actually comfier than my bed. Seriously, how much did you pay for it? It's glorious."

Derek cracks a smile at that.

"My dad brought me here," Stiles continues.

"Your dad?"

"Yep. He's actually reasonably okay with the whole," Stiles gestures between them. "Thing."

Derek shifts to sit on the sofa beside him. "Something happened."

Stiles nods. "Yeah. Scott tell you about Annalise going after Lydia?" At Derek's confirmation, Stiles continues, "Well, I was walking back when Vince caught up with me. He was doing the whole shady hunter act and he mentioned his friends having lost contact and I might have let slip about me being there? So he knows I'm associated with you two and he knows that the rest of his group are dead. He's probably already figured out that you two are back in town."

Derek's silent for a moment, then, "You're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Vince got a little handsy but my dad showed up. For the record, my dad is awesome. And really useful. He's put some deputies outside Lydia's house, so hopefully that'll make Vince and Annalise hesitate to go after her."

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but then his head snaps up and towards the door, his expression closing off in anger.

"What?" Stiles whispers. He's not really sure why he whispers, but it seems like a good idea. "What's going on?"

"They're here," Derek bites out.

"The Hayes?" Stiles' eyes widen. "Shit. So they've definitely figured out you're back in town. What do we do?"

"Go upstairs."

Stiles gets to his feet before realization dawns. "Wait, what? You want me to hide while you're in the firing line?"

"Exactly what defence do you have right now, Stiles?"

"Er. None."

_Not without my magic,_ he thinks bitterly. Given a little time, he might be able to come up with _something_ – he's kept Scott's ass safe all this time, after all – but then Derek is shoving him towards the stairs.

He reluctantly goes. If he has to hide, then he'll hide. And he'll come up with some plan while he does so. Derek has to have _some _kind of weapon in the loft. Surely he's not dumb enough to just rely on claws and teeth.

He hurries up the stairs and steps aside so Cora can jump down them to join her brother. The second level of the loft is split into three; Cora's bedroom, a bathroom and a storage closet. Stiles figures Cora would rip his head off if she knew he'd gone into her room without permission, so he opts to go into the bathroom, pushing the door to without fully closing it so he can listen to what's going on downstairs.

Several silent moments pass and Stiles is beginning to wonder if they've overreacted when he hears the loud bang of the loft door being forced open.

_Subtle_.

* * *

**So the Stiles teaser for 3b killed me. I won't go into specifics in case anyone hasn't seen it (if you haven't, go watch it - it's creepy as hell but it's left me seriously excited for 3b) but holy crumpets. And we're meant to be getting one for Scott and Allison tonight, which will be good to see.**

**Tumblr: dontbeobviousmoriarty. Come talk Teen Wolf and freak out over the teaser trailer with me?**

**Also, I'm currently working on a Teen Wolf and Doctor Who crossover fic. Would anyone be interested in reading that? If so, I might post it once 'Divisions' is complete.**


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